


You Know I Can’t Let You Slide Through My Hands

by threemeows



Series: Wild Horses [8]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-10-25 17:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17729324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: A repository of short one-shots of missing scenes from my series, Wild Horses. Inspired by some prompt requests and other stuff.





	1. Chapter 1

Their first place is technically Lucas and Andre’s futon, in their tiny one bedroom in Yonkers - which, they learn to their dismay, is technically _not_  New York City. Lucas laughs and gives them hell for being such newbies - he’s been doing that since Lara Jean had to call him in a panic when they got to Penn Station and could not figure out how to get up to them. But being able to crash there while they find their footing - not to mention, a (somewhat) affordable place to live - is invaluable. Lara Jean does a lot of “thank you” baking the tail end of that summer, even though it crowds the tiny kitchen and heats up the apartment so quickly the window air conditioning unit craps out and Peter feels obligated to buy Lucas and Andre another.

 

It takes a while to find their second place. Perhaps they were a bit too naive to find some place in Manhattan in between Fordham and NYU. Hell’s Kitchen becomes a distant dream, very quickly. Brooklyn and Queens seem too far for their first year. Eventually they settle on the Upper East Side, in a studio so small they don’t even bother trying to put the mattress in the loft, because even while lying down Peter will bump his head. It’s a fold-out couch for their living room/bedroom - and an oversized beanbag left over from Peter’s college days (but a brand new TV because hey she can’t argue with that) - an unsteady metal cart for the island in an already cramped kitchen. There’s no space for a table, not even those small bistro ones, and meals are usually - well, always - on the couch, when they remember to fold up the bed.

 

And yet, Lara Jean loves it. She even loves it after Peter puts his foot down over the curtains she finds at the flea market and they get into their first real fight since they got back together. (Over freaking _curtains_. That she _adores_ because they’re so pretty and lacy and just what she was looking for and he won’t listen to freaking reason because he’s being such a stupid boy over them, insisting on something else dark and ugly and drab and - and - and aren’t boys not supposed to have an opinion about these things? Aren’t they just supposed to roll over and let the girl choose the stuff for the house and not care? For God’s sake it’s just freaking curtains. How could he call her choice stupid and ugly. _So_ unreasonable.)

 

He caves after two whole days of the silent treatment in a tiny apartment - she comes home from class to find him struggling to drill the screws in for the rod above the window, tangled up in lace and cursing, his torts textbook lying forgotten in the cocoon of the beanbag. But now, suddenly, she doesn’t have the heart to put them up anymore and she just goes into the kitchen without a word and starts to bake him some Christmas fruitcake cookies in the middle of September. He waits a few minutes before he comes up, hugs her from behind, and drops a kiss in the crook of her neck. And so they end up having make-up sex while the cookies bake, and they end up making do with their inherited blinds and no lace curtains and a barren rod that hangs slanted above the window.

 

Afterwards, brushing burnt cookie crumbs off of naked limbs and wrinkled bedsheets, she supposes this is going to be the biggest adjustment - the idea of fighting over stupid, petty shit, like why the laundry isn’t folded and who’s turn it is to take out the trash and why are there no clean dishes (not having a dishwasher is a pain) - instead of fighting over, well, the stuff they used to fight over when they were younger. It’s a definite shift, weird and strange and sometimes frustrating, into their second apartment, this home they’ve made for themselves.

 

And she also doesn’t care, because even though it’s teeny she loves the kitchen where she can put up the mixer on the cart and stress bake all she wants when classes become overwhelming, and she loves the surprisingly comfy pull out where she can lie on her stomach and study with her feet in the air while the light slants in through the blinds, and she loves that every night she gets to lie in that bed next to Peter and just listen to the city still thrumming with life and his quiet, steady breath and the pulse of their love for each other between them.

 

-tbc-


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends with benefits shenanigans. Takes place between chapters 9 and 10 of Maybe We’ll Ride Them Someday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping timelines as you do.

They’re supposed to be talking.

 

But Lara Jean had buzzed him in, and Peter had knocked on the door, and she’d opened it and he’d smiled at her with his soft dark eyes, his gaze traveling all over face, and he smelled so nice standing so close to her in the door way, that when he’d leaned down to kiss her, she’d done the only sensible thing in that senseless moment and kissed him back.

 

So they’re supposed to be talking, and she agreed that they should talk, and he drove all the way down here to talk, but instead he’s got her pressed against the hallway wall, hands cupping her face.

 

She shifts, to close the door, and he does too, and suddenly his thigh is between hers, denim rasping her bare legs.

 

Lara Jean breaks the kiss, Peter pulls back slightly. “Hi,” she murmurs, forehead touching his. Her hands twitch against his hips - they’ve fisted themselves into the sides of his sweater, close to pulling the cotton up.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs back. One hand is still against her cheek, the other has drifted down, to the hem of her shorts- his middle finger tracing circles against her skin. If she were to shift again, his fingers could easily drift to her inner thigh - up through the leg of her shorts. If.

 

But it’s not. Because they’re going to talk.

 

She takes a deep breath, grasps for something to say, to break the spell. She lets go of his sweater, nudges past him. “Um, was the drive okay?”

 

“Uh - yeah. Yeah, it was good. Thanks.”

 

“Do you want a drink? Coffee?” She gestures lamely towards the kitchen, crosses her arms and looks at anywhere but him.

 

“No, thanks.”

 

Lara Jean nods once, searching desperately for a topic. She fiddles with the long sleeves of her t-shirt. Finally, she blurts out, “Want a tour?”

 

Peter’s brow furrows, and he looks around, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, at the small apartment - small enough that he can clearly see everything from his vantage point in the living room. But he shrugs and says, “Sure.”

 

Lara Jean nods slowly. She’s cringing inside, because he has been here before, although the last time was during the fall of sophomore year, before they broke up. “Those are Aly and Sav’s rooms,” she says, nodding towards the two closed doors.

 

“Right.”

 

“Kitchen,” she says, walking into it. She grabs two glasses and fills them up with water from the sink. She hands Peter one, and even though he said he didn’t want any, he takes it anyway. Their fingers touch and she nearly drops the glass before he grabs it firmly. He doesn’t seem to notice, just looks around the small kitchen, and she brushes by him to head back into the living room.

 

“Living room,” she mumbles, face red.

 

“Yeah, gathered,” he says, taking a deep drink of the water. She watches his adam’s apple bob - remembers what it was like to lick sweat off it right when he’d push into -

 

He catches her gaze, holds it.Half a second too long.

 

She turns abruptly on her heel, heads for her room. Thank god she’d jammed every scrap of tossed clothing in the closet this morning. “Um, my room,” she says, dumbly.

 

Peter looks around while she hurriedly downs the rest of her water. She watches him go up to the window, peek outside to the street three floors down. The afternoon light streams through the blinds, so he’s shadowed to her.

 

“Looks pretty much the same,” he says, turning around. He sets his cup on the window sill.

 

Lara Jean nods, puts her cup down on her nightstand. “So, um - I know you said you wanted to talk?”

 

He nods, too, rubs the back of his head. “Yeah. I mean - I guess - you came last weekend and threw all this at me - not, you know, that I’m complaining so ...”

 

“I get it,” she says, swallowing. “It’s a lot.” He’s suddenly closer. Did he walk towards her? Did she, to him? It’s hard to think straight, when she wants to rent her own skin apart, break free of all this heat, this rush, and yet dive head first into something more.

 

“Covey,” he murmurs, and his hands are at her waist now, at the edge of her shirt - and hers are clutching the front of his sweater. Their foreheads touch again, and she closes her eyes. She’d forgotten how heady it was, to be so close to him, share his breath. How it still is. “We should really -"

 

She kisses him, light, only a little bit of her mouth open. His hands tighten at her waist, slide up her back, beneath her shirt. The backs of her knees touch the side of her bed, just as he presses against her, kisses her even harder. “... I think - we should ...” he manages to get out, right before she pulls him down with her.

 

The feel of him on top of her, pressing her into the covers, into the mattress, makes her moan into his mouth. There’s a brief moment of fumbling while she helps him out of his sweater before she hooks both her legs around his hips. The motion makes him pause, inhale sharply, before he grinds into her and Lara Jean cries out. He pushes again, groaning, and she flails her hand out for the bedside table drawer, scrabbles for its contents and comes up empty.

 

“W-wait. Stop. Shit,” she says, but it’s muffled because he’s pulling her shirt over her head. “Damn it.”

 

“Huh? What?” He stops, lifts himself up on his elbows. He’s unbuttoned his jeans.

 

She claps both hands to her eyes, pissed. “Ugh. I um - “ She stops herself from saying “I ran out of condoms” because she doesn’t want to get into that right now, for obvious reasons. Calmly, but still angry at herself, she starts over. “I don’t have condoms. Did you bring any?”

 

Peter groans, then rolls off of her and lies on his stomach. “No. God fucking dammit.”

 

Lara Jean giggles. She hears him snicker and looks at him. He’s lying beside her on his stomach, head buried in his arms. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah. Just. You know. Give me a second.”

 

“Sure.” She closes her eyes, tries to calm down. Her entire body hums, limbs jittery. _Get it together_ , she snaps to herself. It’s probably better that they don’t. They shouldn’t complicate things even more.

 

She winces, though. Now that they won’t be having sex, that means they’ll have to talk. About actual things. He’ll want to know about what they’re going to do. About John. And - and she’s not ready for that.

 

She jumps when she feels his fingers on her stomach. “Hey,” he says, whirling them around her abdomen gently. Gooseflesh rises. “All good?”

 

Lara Jean bites her lip, looks at him. His gaze goes from careful, neutral, to something darker. “No,” she says, and sits up. Peter sits up too, but she reaches into his boxers, where he’s still very hard.He stifles a groan - grabs her wrist, as if to stop her.

 

“Covey - you don’t have -“

 

“We can do other things,” she murmurs, kissing his ear. She begins to stroke, and his head dips, rests in the crook of her neck. “I just ...” _I just don’t want to talk now._ His hand goes up, over her breast - squeezes, firm, and she gasps - trails up to the strap, and nudges it down. _I can’t deal right now._ She shifts, and bites his ear, just a tiny bit. “I just want to feel ...”

 

She feels his entire body shudder - and that makes her shiver, too, as he pulls her closer, pushes her down onto the mattress. Lara Jean closes her eyes, forgets about the fact that they’re supposed to be talking, to be figuring things out. She’ll float away on sensation, and she’ll stop thinking. She’ll just ride this wave of heat pooling low in her belly - crash against his lips and tongue, around his fingers - steer him towards his own burning crest with her mouth and hands - and just deal with the inevitable later.

 

-tbc-


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different ... takes place around the same time as chapter 12 of Maybe We’ll Ride Them Some Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol I needed to get this out of my system before the work week starts again sorry NOT SORRY AT ALL

The party is terrible and the alcohol even worse, and Dipti’s five minutes from yawning and telling Leah she’s going to bail, when she spots the familiar lanky form across the room.

 

 _Shit_ , she thinks, nearly spilling her drink. Of course she knew John would be here - they’ve been texting for a while now, and he’d asked if she was going to Annie’s during spring break, and she’d said “Yeah” and he’d said “Maybe I’ll see you there?” And she’d said “Maybe” but she hadn’t actually expected him to be here. Not like here, here.

 

“Hey, Johnny,” Leah says, when he comes over. She gives him a hug, then glances at Dipti. “Uh, so I’ll see you later?”

 

Dipti, eyes wide over the rim of her Solo cup, can only blink at her.

 

“Hey,” John says, smiling tentatively. She takes a sip of her very bad beer, to stop her heart from rolling over. Even after all this time, he still has that damned effect on her. After about three years of not seeing each other at all. How is that even fair.

 

The jerk.

 

“Hey,” she says, after she swallows. “How’re you doing?”

 

He nods. “Good. You?”

 

“Can’t complain.” The music switches over to something obnoxiously One Direction-y and they both cringe at the same time. Despite herself, she grins - which makes him grin, and she quickly schools her face into something more blank and impassive and cool.

 

John nods again, slowly. “Soooo, you’re still mad.”

 

“I’m not mad, I’m neutral,” she says into her cup.

 

“Right,” he says, knowingly. He stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. “You wanna take a walk?”

 

Dipti finishes the beer. Well, why the hell not? “Yeah, I’m headed home anyway.”

 

It’s a long walk from Annie’s, and it’s a cool night for spring break. She zips up her jacket and crosses her arms, head down. She really hasn’t figured out what to say to him, yet. The last time they actually “saw” each other was him FaceTiming her to break things off because Daada ji found out about them and was threatening to pull her college fund. She’d been mad at her grandfather but absolutely livid with John, pulling this stupid sacrificial knight shit. They haven’t seen each other since. Partially her fault, because she’d ignored all his texts afterwards and unfollowed him on Instagram and Twitter. But, she figures she had a good reason.

 

The only sound is of their footsteps on the pavement and the music and chatter of the party fading rapidly behind them. Finally, when it gets so quiet it’s starting to turn awkward, John says, “So, on a scale from one to ten, how mad are you still?”

 

“I told you, I’m not mad. I’m neutral,” she says.

 

“So, a five?”

 

“A six.”

 

“A six.” John whistles low. “Well, better than a seven, I guess.”

 

“Marginally better.”

 

“I’ll take what I can get,” he says, easily, and she turns away to hide her grin. Then he says, softly, “I heard about your grandfather. I’m really sorry.”

 

Dipti bites the inside of her cheek. Daada ji is willful, and stubborn, and mean, but he loves all of them with the fierceness he’s lived his life with. “Kind of like you,” Mom had pointed out. And if it wasn’t for him, going to Michigan would’ve just stayed a pipe dream.

 

“Thanks,” she says, and means it. “He’s doing better now. But you know, Alzheimer’s ... anyway, thanks.” Because only John would say sorry to her about Daada ji, and be utterly sincere, even after what the old man pulled. Because John’s just that kind of guy, and always has been.

 

They reach her house in slightly more comfortable silence. When she starts fishing around in her purse for her keys, John puts out her hand - takes her wrist gently. She stops, looks up at him, then looks down again, because wow, she’d forgotten what it was like to look into his eyes, and she doesn’t want to get swept up in him again.

 

“So, am I down to a five at least?”

 

Dipti screws up her mouth, contemplating. “I am not angry,” she says, finally. “I was angry, but I’m not anymore.” She looks up, holds his stare. “You just have a really bad thing when it comes to heroics.”

 

“Yeah, you’ve said,” he says, with a rueful laugh. He looks at her through his lashes and her heart skips. “So, do I have to get down on my hands and knees?”

 

Dipti scoffs, slaps his shoulder. “What did I _just_ say?”

 

He laughs, let’s go of her hand. She shakes her head and says, quietly, “Good night,” and unlocks the door and steps inside.

 

She’s about to close it when he says, suddenly, “What are you doing after college?”

 

A little thrown, she says, truthfully, “Getting my masters. I got into Northwestern and U of C. So, it looks like either one of those. You?”

 

“I got a job in Chicago,” he says. Her chest constricts, and she stops in her tracks, stares. John gives a slight smile, just a bare upturn of the side of his mouth, but in the porch light his dark brown eyes sparkle knowingly - like he’s got her number, and always had. He walks backwards off the porch, hands in his jeans pockets again. “Guess I’ll ... see you around?”

 

She can feel her mouth work soundlessly for a second. He’salready turned around, heading away, when she blurts out, because she’ll be damned if she lets him have the last word, “I’m still mad at you, Johnny!”

 

His laughter echoes down the street, and as she leans her forehead against the jamb, face hot and heart thumping with a familiar thrill, she laughs, too.

-tbc-

 

ETA: *SPOILER ALERT FOR TATBILB #2 FILM* - Edited this on 4/20/19 to reflect Jordan Fisher's casting. :)  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Basically I just want everybody to be happy lmfao, and basically I’ve decided that this series is a negative commentary on the terribleness of the funding of the American post secondary education system!!!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hop skip and a jump through time ...

They’re in some thrift store, because Peter likes to scout for stuff that he can send back to Mom for her shop, and Lara Jean just eats this shit up. She can spend hours browsing through the clothes and costume jewelry while he haggles over a battered wingback or scratched up vanity. So basically it’s a quiet Saturday, one of the rare ones these days, because work is kicking his ass lately - a major deposition coming up, his first time second-chairing, and he’s kind of terrified but he’ll never admit it - and LJ’s off for the summer before her first year of residency starts officially.

 

But they’re in this random thrift store in the East Village when he spots it - or rather, when Covey spots it, through the display case.

 

“Like anything?” he asks, peering over her shoulder.

 

“Nah,” she says, but only after a long moment. She brightens up, gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Did you get the chest? Your Mom’ll love it.”

 

“She’ll love selling it, you mean,” he says, as the cashier rings him up and asks for the shipping information. Lara Jean puts down on the counter a few silk scarves and a beaded clutch purse but doesn’t say anything more.

 

Later, at lunch break on Monday, he takes a cab back to the store. Stares through the glass for a few minutes before straightening and asking for the price. He feels slightly weird about it, doubt creeping in for a half a second - he knows a handful of guys and some of the girls from his associate class will raise their eyebrows and whisper at the next firm party where everyone brings their significant others and the women will start “subtlety” flashing their left hands in the restaurant lighting. But he also knows the look on Covey’s face when she first saw it. It’s almost exactly the same as when she spotted that locket in Mom’s shop, the locket she still breaks out to wear when they’re going some place “fancy-schmancy” as she calls it. Almost exactly the same, because when she was sixteen, it was just an idle wish, a child’s dream, that he just happened to spot and remember, when he first started falling in love with her for real. This time, he’s old enough to see something else there - still a wish, but not an if, or a maybe, but a when.

 

And besides, Covey? Has never really been a diamond kind of girl anyway.

 

He doesn’t bargain the guy down too much - and the old dude seems to get why he’s asking over it anyway (the guy keeps slowly nodding, calling him “son” here and there), so in the span of a quick lunch break, he’s got a aquamarine ring some old lady probably wore in the ‘50’s stuffed in his inner suit pocket. All because his girl has the references of an 80-year-old woman.

 

He doesn’t ask right away, and he doesn’t plan to. It’s not that he’s chicken shit - okay, maybe a little - but the timing’s not right. She’s about to start her residency. He’s just about to finish his first full year of work, and a good chunk of that (insane) amount of money is going to pay off his law school debt (turns out a free ride just means tuition, not, you know, the ability to eat three square meals a day and pay rent and utilities ... and books and a monthly MetroCard), and Owen’s college (which wow, so Yale? kinda expensive). So, yeah. It’s just not the right time.

 

But. You know. Best to be prepared in the meantime, just in case.

 

-tbc-


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> to the future ...

They’re at D and Lily’s Fourth of July barbecue - a rare weekend off, their first real vacation since their honeymoon - when the sudden realization makes her sit back, winded.

 

Peter’s talking with DeMarcus at the grill, gesturing with a broken pool noodle, and Lara Jean’s lying by the pool with Lily, when the baby manages to squirm her way out of her mom’s grip and toddle unsteadily towards her dad. Lily calls, over the din of chatter and splashing water, “D! She’s heading your way!”

 

DeMarcus turns, still talking with Peter, and not missing a beat, picks Jasmine up. She gives her dad a smacking kiss on the lips before DeMarcus hands her over to Peter so he can turn the hamburgers.

 

Lara Jean watches Peter settle his goddaughter against his hip - bop her on the head with the torn noodle to get her to laugh. And Lara Jean turns away, heart fluttering.

 

Lily looks at her knowingly. “She has that effect on men,” she jokes.

 

Lara Jean gives her a small smile - waits for the inevitable, “So when are you gonna have one?” The question any woman with a spouse and a career and no children gets asked on a somewhat regular basis. But it doesn’t come. Lily just lies back against the lounge, her eyes closed. She looks exhausted. Which isn’t surprising, considering Jasmine’s only thirteen months old.

 

“Aren’t you gonna ask?” Lara Jean says.

 

“Ask you what?”

 

“You know.”

 

Lily opens one eye, frowns. “The kid thing? No. None of my business.” Then she says, looking out at the pool, “It drove me nuts. People ask and they have no idea if you’re trying, and it’s not working. Or if - you know ...”

 

Her voice hitched at the end, and Lara Jean, alarmed, sits up and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Oh my god. I didn’t know. Peter never said -“

 

“Oh, he didn’t know either, we never told him,” Lily says, waving a hand. “We never told anyone except our parents.” She’s not crying, and it’s hard to see her expression behind those sunglasses, but Lara Jean can tell the pain is still raw. Yet Lily’s smile brightens suddenly, like the sunshine came out through the clouds, and Lara Jean turns just as she hears the damp patter of little feet. Jasmine launches herself at Lily, who scoops her up and puts her on her lap. “I guess you could say it ended up all right in the end,” Lily says.

 

Lara Jean smiles softly, reaches over to tickle the baby’s sides, and Jasmine squeals with laughter, dimples deep and smile wide.

 

*

 

They’re on the Amtrak back to New York when Lara Jean says, abruptly, “You want to start trying for kids, don’t you.”

 

And she says it as a statement, because she knows him so well - and because he knows her so well, he doesn’t even jump. Back when they were teenagers and she’d pose her sudden questions out of the blue, he’d react like she’d jolted him with electricity. “You and your questions!” he’d snap, and she’d laugh and continue to needle.

 

But it’s been years since they were teens, and everything was new and exciting and tipped on the verge of the edge every second of every day.It may no longer be new, it may no longer be Dramatic with a capital D, but. It’s still exciting.

 

Peter puts his arm around her shoulders and she nestles into his chest. “Yeah, been thinking about it,” he admits, quiet, and she closes her eyes at the low rumble of his voice beneath her ear.

 

“And?”

 

“And what? You’re the doctor. You should know you kinda need two people.”

 

She snickers, lifts her head. Kisses his chin. He shifts and gives her a light kiss back on the lips before he pulls away to look at her properly.

 

“So we’re doing this, huh?”

 

She smirks. “Well. Not now. We’re in public.” He rolls his eyes and she laughs. Then she sobers, and so does he, as they lock gazes. Every decision they’ve made together - getting together in the first place ... going to different schools ... breaking up, and reuniting ... moving to New York and navigating grad school and job hunting and apartment searching - has been just that. Decisions they made together, that only concerned them. All of them scary, in their own different ways, but nothing like this. This one is the first one that won’t be just about them. And that’s giving her pause, because it’s terrifying, because it’s a Very Big Deal, the biggest of deals ever.

 

And it’s also exciting. And enthralling. And ...

 

“Can we not go crazy trying?” she asks. “Just - you know - if it happens, it happens?”

 

“Take all the fun out of it,” Peter jokes, but at her look, says, seriously. “I gotcha.” Then he asks, “Scared?”

 

“A little,” she admits. What happened to Lily makes her hesitate. But she also knows, from experience, where there’s risk, there’s reward. Didn’t he teacher that? “But who wouldn’t be?” And with a small, nervous smile, but conviction on the set of her jaw, too, she bumps his fist with hers. “We’re doing this.”

 

Peter grins, scrunch-nosed, at her - and because they _are_ in public, just squeezes her around the shoulders and gives her several loud, exaggerated, wet smooching kisses on the cheek. She giggles and settles more securely against his side, closes her eyes, and breathes in.

 

Later, when they’re finally back home, and she’s unpacking her toiletries, she comes across her birth control packet, stuffed into the side pocket of her make-up bag. She smirks down at it for a moment, before she tosses it in the bathroom trash. Then she looks at herself in the mirror - face flushed, eyes wide, but smile pleased, and secure.

 

-tbc-


	6. Chapter 6

“What’s it like, anyway?”

 

“What’s what like?” Lara Jean shifts, tries to find a more comfortable position - gives up and just lies flat on her back again.

 

“You know. Being pregnant.”

 

She traces her hand over her stomach. Her ginormous stomach. She’s forgotten what it was like to not have that stomach. To be able to take a deep breath without strain. Right now, on her back, she can’t seem to get quite enough air. But lying on either side for an extended period of time makes her ribs hurt even more.

 

“Do you remember when you made me watch _Aliens_?” she asks, idly.

 

Peter scoffs. “I didn’t make you.”

 

“Are you kidding me?!”

 

“... Okay, maybe a little. But you didn’t need that much convincing.” In the darkness, she lifts a brow. “I mean, relatively speaking.” Now it’s her turn to scoff. “Look if you really didn’t want to watch _Aliens_ you wouldn’t have come over.”

 

“You lied and told me there was a meet-cute!”

 

“That wasn’t lying. There was totally a meet-cute. It just so happened Hicks and Ripley were in the middle of blowing aliens to pieces.” She scoffs again. “Don’t blame me if it didn’t live up to your Anne of Green Gables fantasy. It’s just high time you admit the only reason you came over was so you could jump me.”

 

“What?!” She bursts out laughing. In the darkness his teeth gleam white as he laughs too. She bumps his shoulder with her own - in this position, she can’t do much more. “I did not. I was terrified of you.”

 

“Terrified? Wow, Covey. That hurts.”

 

“Well. Not _terrified_ terrified. And not like, of you,” she quickly amends. “Not really. Just. You know. The whole situation.”

 

He laughs, pushes some hair out of her eyes. “Yeah. I get it. I was the same.” At her confused look, he says, “I thought you liked me back then, but you were - I dunno, hot and cold, and you had just tried to cancel the ski trip on me -“

 

“I did not can -“

 

“You tried to cancel the ski trip on me,” he barrels onwards, digging his fingers into her sides to tickle her. She laughs, tries to squirm out of the way, but she’s hardly the poster child for dexterity right now. “I thought you were gonna scamper off into the sunset and leave me in the dust without a ‘see ya later.’” He laughs suddenly. “And you know what? You basically did!”

 

She laughs again, remembering how she blanked him on the bus. It’s funny how years later they can laugh about this stuff, when back then it was all So Very Serious and Dramatic.

 

Peter props his head up with his hand, looks down at her sympathetically. “So it’s that bad, huh?” he asks, smoothing his hand over her belly.

 

“... No ...”

 

Now it’s his turn to lift a skeptical brow. “I mean. You know that part in the movie where it’s about to burst out? But like, without any pain. Only pressure. And squiggly.” She takes as deep a breath as she can, sighs. Inside her, the baby moves, poking a hand or an elbow or maybe it’s butt - whatever it is, it’s a sizeable outward dent, tentpoling her abdomen just above her bellybutton. She rubs the spot lightly through her sleep shirt with her pointer finger, and slowly, gently, the dent smoothes away, like it was never there. “I just can’t wait for next month,” she admits. How did Margot do this two times already? How did her mother do it _three_  times? She’d been lucky - no real morning sickness, except for that one time she threw up right before performing a major surgery - and then again, right after it - and no complications, like Aly, who’d ended up with gestational diabetes and bedrest with her last one.

 

She keeps telling herself she’s lucky. She’s one of the lucky ones. Aly and Michael had serious problems during both of her pregnancies. Lily had a miscarriage before she and DeMarcus had Jasmine. Lara Jean knows exactly how lucky she is.

 

But god. This sucks. This really freaking _sucks_.

 

“Just seventeen more days,” Peter says, reading her mind, playing with her hair.

 

Lara Jean nods rapidly, wiping the tears from her eyes. It’ll be soon, it’ll be soon. She tries to take a deep breath, but can’t - ends up choking back a rueful laugh. Peter kisses her on the temple. “If I tell you to go sleep, you’re gonna hit me, aren’t you?”

 

“ ... Yeah.”

 

“... I’ll risk it. Go to sleep.”

 

She shoves his shoulder, as hard as she can, which isn’t that hard, because she’s got forty pounds of extra weight pressing down on her and she _can’t_ _freaking_ _move_ properly.

 

“Jerk.”

 

”Yeah, but you love me,” he says, eyes closed, already breathing deeply. She smiles despite herself, despite everything. Because she does, and because she wouldn’t be doing all this if she didn’t.

 

She closed her eyes, tries to let herself drift. Sleep will come, she knows, and she also knows she’ll wake up exhausted, and cranky, again. But it’ll be soon. God, she hopes it’s soon.

 

-tbc-


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time juuuuuump

Aidan’s two when it happens. They just get back from grocery shopping, and since it’s a lot and they have to deal with a grumpy toddler, they leave some by the stairs, walk the rest up, and prop their front door open with a gallon of milk. Lara Jean is rushing, jamming things into the fridge and cabinets - Peter is doing the same, a hurried scramble of get-this-finished-as-soon-as-possible, when suddenly Lara Jean looks up and exclaims, “Where’s Aidan?”

 

Peter peers out into the living room - yells, “Aid?” But doesn’t hear the tell-tale giggle, or a little “Heyyo” in response. He sets down the six pack of beer on the counter, walks into the hall. Lara Jean brushes by and goes to their bedroom, calling, “Aidan? Aidan!”

 

That’s when Peter sees the open front door.

 

_Fuck_. “Aidan!” He runs out of the apartment, looks down the hall. Aidan is at the top of the stairs, hand on the railing, about to venture down.

 

He turns, grins, and says, “Hi, Dada.”

 

And then, of course, he tumbles down the steps.

 

“ _Aidan_!” Peter rushes forward, slides into the bannister and nearly goes down himself. Aidan, in an almost perfect barrel roll, finally comes to a rest on the landing, belly-up. He stares, wide-eyed, up at his father, utterly bewildered. For one hysterical, panicked second, Peter almost wants to laugh at his son’s expression. Then Aidan’s face crumples, turns bright purply-red, and a piercing wail echoes through the hall.

 

_Well_ , _fuck_. Peter runs down the steps, takes the final ten at a jump, and scoops Aidan up. Somewhere above him he hears Lara Jean shriek, and as he lifts Aidan into his arms, he hears her run down.

 

“Mama! Mama! _MAAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAAA_!!!!” Aidan screams, even as he clutches the front of Peter’s shirt. “MAMA I WAN’ MAMA MAMAMAMAMAMAMA -“

 

“It’s okay, bud. It’s okay. Calm down.” Peter takes a seat on the steps. _Jesus_ _Christ_. He could’ve been killed.

 

Lara Jean reaches them, and tries to pry Aidan off of him, but despite the kid screaming for his mother, he’s got a vice grip on Peter. “Did he hit his head?” she snaps, brusque.

 

“I-I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

 

“Did he hit _his_ _head_?!”

 

Peter looks at her, shocked at her tone - then he realizes. “I don’t know,” he replies, honestly. Calmly. As calmly as he can, given the circumstances.

 

Lara Jean’s face pinches inward, then she says, clipped, “Hold him away from you. I need to see.”

 

“Come on, bud. Aidan, let go for a second.”

 

“Mama’s here,” Lara Jean adds, more calmly now. She runs her fingers through his fluffy dark hair - looks into his red swollen eyes. After she checks out his limbs - just a bruise on his upper left arm, another on his right hip, she sits back on her heels, sighs. “Okay. You’re okay.” She looks at Peter. “I want to get him scanned at the hospital.”

 

“ _What_? You just said he was okay -“

 

“Peter. Please.” She worries her lip between her teeth. “I think he’s okay. But I just want to be sure. Please? Hey.” Her voice turns sharper suddenly. She snaps her fingers in front of Aidan’s face - the baby, sniffling, had nestled himself into Peter’s chest. “Don’t go to sleep, buddy. Okay?” She looks at Peter again, worried. “I probably am overreacting. But I just need to be sure.”

 

He opens his mouth, about to protest - but her gaze is brittle, pleading, and he sighs. He can’t fight her on this.

 

“Okay,” he says, and moves to stand up. Aidan reaches for Lara Jean, who tucks him against her hip. “I’ll get the rest of the groceries. You get us a car. I’ll be quick.”

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, smoothing leftover tears from Aidan’s face. Peter kisses each of them on the temple, and Lara Jean goes back to the apartment, crooning softly, to get their belongings, and he heads down to grab the remaining shopping bags. By the time he’s done shoving the refrigerated stuff away - he leaves the nonperishables still in the bags on the kitchen floor - the cab is idling in the front and Lara Jean is buckling Aidan into the car seat they keep for emergencies.

 

Peter climbs in next to her, puts his arm around her shoulders. “I know he’s fine,” Lara Jean murmurs, holding onto Aidan’s hand. And he looks it. He’s looking out the window, watching the world whizz by, with the same eager curiosity he had not half an hour ago, blathering nonsense about the cars and the people. “But - you know - I -”

 

“I know.” He rubs her shoulder - she smiles, limp and tired, at him, before leaning over to touch her forehead with his ... and then, after he kisses the tip of her nose, she turns to their son, and does the same to him.

 

-tbc-

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> right after the airport scene in Maybe We'll Ride Them Some Day

As soon as they pull into traffic Kitty knows it was a mistake to have Peter pick them up from the airport. She’d bailed for the parking lot not only to give him and her sister some privacy but also to avoid having to witness their mushy faces and googly eyes. Now they’re all in the car, driving home, and these idiots are holding hands over the center console, which is something they didn’t even do in all the times Peter used to drive them to and from school (fake and real dating included).

 

Kitty stifles a disgusted sigh and unlocks her phone. She’s happy for them, really. This is something she’s wanted for LJ ever since that FaceTime around two years ago when her sister called from college and let slip, red-eyed but brave-faced, that she and Peter had broken up, but that it was “for the best” and there were “no hard feelings” and blah blah blah liar liar pants on freaking flaming fire.

 

So yeah, she’s happy for LJ. And for Peter. It’s just really hard to feel one hundred percent happy right now.

 

_Ugh_. Now Lara Jean is leaning over to give him a peck on the cheek. Peter glances over, smiles, and waits until traffic slows to kiss her back, this time on the mouth.

 

Kitty harrumphs, loudly.

 

They pull back and settle into their seats, and Peter coughs, but they otherwise don’t look that embarrassed which makes Kitty roll her eyes even more. _Dumbasses_.

 

When they finally get back to the house, Kitty knows she has to scram. She does _not_ want to be here when they sneak upstairs and try - and fail - to be inconspicuous.

 

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” she says, grabbing her keys.

 

Lara Jean looks up from the fridge. “Are you sure? I thought you’d want to pick up the dogs from the kennel.”

 

“They’re paid through until Dad and Tree come back,” Kitty says. “I need to stretch my legs.”

 

LJ and Peter exchange glances. Before LJ can half-heartedly protest, Kitty’s out the door.

 

Of course, now that she’s free, the question is where to go. She got excused from class until the day after tomorrow, so she could recover from the jet lag. And anyway, it doesn’t matter - school’s already been let out for the day. All her friends are probably at their afternoon activities, scattered to the wind.

 

So. That really only leaves one option.

 

Kitty sighs, zips up her hoodie to her chin, stuffs her hands in her pockets, and starts the walk to Brielle’s house. Might as well get this over with.

 

*

 

They last all of two seconds. The moment the front door closes Lara Jean leaps at Peter, hooking her legs around his waist. He stumbles backwards a bit but manages to catch her and they laugh. When she finally calms down she manages to get out, “Hi!” And he replies, eyes alight, “Hi.” Then they both laugh again and she hugs him close, thrilled.

 

“When are you going back to school?” she murmurs into his neck.

 

“Um ...”

 

She lifts her head. “Don’t tell me you cut class today.”

 

“.... Okay, I won’t say a thing.”

 

“Peter!” She unwinds her legs, feet to the floor, but keeps her arms around his neck.

 

“Come on, Covey! Like I was gonna let you guys drive home by yourselves. It’s all good.” She looks at him skeptically but he gives her puppy dog eyes. “Besides. I wanted to spend the night before you go back. Which is ..?”

 

“Tomorrow morning. I’m taking the 6am bus. I should get back in time for my afternoon class.”

 

Peter scoffs. “Oh my god. You’re such a goody-goody.”

 

“Am not! I just really like the class!”

 

“Oh, yeah? What is it? Danielle Steele 101?” She blushes, and then he laughs. “Oh my god. I was joking. Is it really that?”

 

Her mouth pinches, as if to stop herself from grinning, and her face turns an even deeper shade of red. “If you must know ... Eroticism in Western Literature. It’s highly ... informative.”

 

He raises his brows, as if considering. “Damn. Yeah, you should totally go to class. Maybe bring back some tips.” She smirks, but then suddenly her smile fades. “Hey. What’s up?”

 

“Nothing. I just –” She sighs, and says, “I’m worried about Kitty. She says she’s okay. I thought she was. But I dunno ...”

 

He nods slowly. “Gotcha. Want me to go after her?”

 

“You don’t even know where she went.” She nods at the island, where Kitty left her cellphone. “And we can’t call.”

 

“I got a pretty good idea,” Peter says, dryly.

 

*

 

Kitty rocks back and forth on her heels for what seems like ages before the front door opens. Brielle, shocked, exclaims, “Kitty!” before she steps out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “Hey! What are you - I thought you were in –”

 

“We came back today,” Kitty says. She frowns at the car in the driveway. “Is _he_ here?”

 

Brielle flushes. “Kit ...”

 

“It’s fine,” Kitty says, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. “Look, I only came to say - I know you still want us to be friends. And ... I still want us to be friends. I just don’t think I can do that right now. So ... please stop trying to call me or, like, make it up to me. I just gotta be alone for a little bit. Okay?”

 

Brielle worries her lower lip between her teeth, face ashen. For a second Kitty’s will dissolves and she wants nothing more to throw herself at Brielle, beg this girl who’s been her best friend since childhood to stop seeing that dickhead - start looking at _her_ the way Brielle looks at him. But that’s never going to happen.

 

Brielle nods finally, then reaches forward for a hug. Kitty, alarmed, takes a giant step back - shakes her head. Brielle’s face crumples, and then she murmurs, “See you later,” before she dashes into the house.

 

Kitty swallows, wipes at her eyes. The contacts are making them smart, is all. Then she tramps down the porch steps - and halts, when she sees the familiar Jeep idling by the curb.

 

“How long have you been there?” she says, peering through the open passenger side window.

 

Peter shrugs, nonchalant. “Just got here. Need a ride?”

 

Kitty opens the door and slides in. As she buckles her seatbelt, she asks, “Where’s LJ?”

 

“Grocery store. She wanted to make sure you weren’t starving after she went back to Carolina.” Peter pulls the Jeep onto the road, but doesn’t take the turn towards her house.

 

Kitty rolls her eyes, annoyed, when he deliberately makes another turn in the wrong direction to delay the ride. _He is so obvious._ “I could’ve done it myself. Not a little kid anymore.”

 

“Yeah, well, she thought it’d be nice. She’s getting supplies for red velvet cupcakes. Betcha I can eat one faster than you.”

 

Kitty glares. “Did you not just hear me say I’m not a little kid anymore?!” she snaps.

 

Peter raises his brows at her, then pulls the car off to the side of the road. “For the record, I still pull this shit with my little brother, so, I’m still gonna do it with you, too,” he says. “Whether you guys can drive or - I dunno, watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” Despite herself, Kitty smirks. “But, fair enough, let’s be real. You okay, or are you just saying you’re okay?”

 

Kitty sits back in her seat, arms crossed. “I guess,” she says. “I dunno. Sometimes I think I am. Others ...” Something occurs to her. “How did you know you were okay? I mean ... after you and ...?” She keeps her eyes on the tips of her Converses. She’s embarrassed to look at him, now. When she was littler she’d idolized him, put him up on a pedestal. Their conversations used to concern which house would win the _Game of Thrones_ \- rounds of Would You Rather - which pizza place was better, DiMartino’s or Sonny’s. Not real life shit. Even that time she’d blindsided him asking for a ride to school to try and play matchmaker with him and LJ, they’d just talked about stupid things. Now she realizes what an awkward position she must’ve put them both in, and she cringes internally thinking about it.

 

“Uhhh ... dunno,” Peter says, eventually. Kitty looks sidelong at him - he’s got his elbow propped up through the open window, his gaze somewhere at the side mirror. “Was angry for a while. Sad, too, I guess. But you know. I got over it. Took some time, but it happened.”

 

“How?”

 

Peter looks over at her, smile soft. “Got a letter.”

 

Kitty stares at him, surprised, then scoffs. “That’s not what I meant. I meant when you and LJ –”

 

“I know what you meant,” he interrupts. “Point still stands.”

 

“It doesn’t because you and what’s-her-face weren’t in love.”

 

“Who says?” Peter says. “‘Course we were.”

 

Kitty narrows her eyes at him. “Ugh. Then you have terrible taste.”

 

“Wow. Harsh,” he says, and he really does sound insulted. “Whatever, Kitty. We were kids, but yeah. I did love Gen.”

 

Fed up, she says, “Well, not as much as you and LJ, right? And LJ never got over you. And you never got over her. Maybe I’ll never get over Brielle. Maybe I’ll be stuck like this forever.”

 

“Yeah, but everyone’s different. Margot got over Sanderson, right?” Kitty pauses, considering. There used to be a time when she thought Gogo and Josh were the be all and end all of relationships. But she’d seen the way her oldest sister and Ravi had looked at each other during the wedding – how he’d taken all of them sight-seeing, and in the quiet moments, when she thought no one was watching, Margot would just be still and serene and sweet with him, in a way that she never had been with Josh.

 

And, of course, there’s Daddy and Trina. Maybe he hasn’t gotten over Mommy. Maybe that’s a horrible way to put it. But still. He got through it. Maybe, he’s even still getting through it. But he’s with someone who loves him, and loves her back.

 

Peter catches her eye. She scrunches her face at him, and he seems to relax a little. Then he jokes, “I mean, okay, maybe that’s a bad example cuz Sanderson’s an asshole, but -”

 

“Josh was cool,” Kitty interrupts. Peter gives her a vaguely affronted look. “Before you came along, he was like, my big brother.”

 

“Wow, these insults just keep on coming,” Peter says, pulling back onto the road. Kitty laughs. “No, I’m really hurt. We’re done, kid. Through.” Kitty just laughs harder.

 

This time he takes the most direct route back to home. When they pull in, Lara Jean is already unloading a few grocery bags from Dad’s car. Peter hops out and helps her and LJ comes over to Kitty. “Everything okay?” she asks, hugging her close.

 

“Yeah.” Kitty takes a deep breath, then pulls away to look at her older sister.

 

“Cool. Red velvet cupcakes?” Lara Jean asks, hooking her arm through hers and leading her up the drive to the house.

 

“Yeah. I’d love one.” She smacks Peter’s hand away when he tries to her ruffle her hair with his free hand.

 

-tbc-


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for something totally left field ...
> 
> I mentioned elsewhere Wild Horses had like three different ways it could’ve gone. I thought I deleted all of them but then I found this super rough draft. 
> 
> So this would’ve happened after LJ goes up to tell Peter his dad showed up at her place. Instead of telling him that she broke up with John (thus leading to friends with benefits shenanigans) this happened.

“Thanks for letting me know. Appreciate it.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

They let the sounds of the party drift over them, a mindless thrum. Peter stares off into space, thumbing his lower lip. The silence between them isn’t exactly awkward, but he’s wondering what to say. If he should say something. If he’s making something a bigger deal than it really is.

 

Instead, to make conversation, he broaches, careful, “So did you hear back from med school?”

 

She nods. “Yeah. I got into Wake Forest. And UNC.”

 

So. North Carolina, again. He smiles. “Yeah? Awesome. Congrats. When did you find out?”

 

“Few days ago. Only my family knows.” She seems oddly quiet about it. “Did you hear from law school?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I got into Washington and Lee. Guess I’m a Virginia boy at heart.”

 

She smiles, a bit wavering. “Congratulations. Your mom must be so proud.”

 

His answering smile is soft, grateful. “Thanks,” he says, and says, feigning dismissiveness, “She kinda went bananas. Embarrassing Facebook posts and everything.”

 

Her look is knowing. “Oh not the embarrassing Facebook posts.”

 

He laughs. “Yeah.” He nods up at the party. “Do you want to come in?”

 

She shakes her head, nods over to the car. “I should head back.”

 

“You’re kidding. It’s late.”

 

“It’s not mine. I’ll be ok.”

 

“At least go back to your Dad’s. The ride is like, a third of the time. If that.”

 

“Aly will freak -“

 

“Yeah, she’ll get over it,” Peter says, pointed.

 

“When did you get so practical?” she murmurs, and he’s wondering if he heard admiration there, or if he just imagined it.

 

He smiles at her, gentle. “I grew up a bit.”

 

He wants to say, because of you. But doesn’t. It’s not the thing to say to a girl who’s got a boyfriend.

 

He holds out his hand. “Leggo,” he says, and together, they step off the stoop and head towards her car. Peter loosens his grip as soon as they hit pavement, but for some reason she twines her pinky round his. He looks down at her, questioning, but her gaze is at her feet, pensive.

 

When they get to the car, he holds the door open for her. Before she gets in, she turns around, squeezes him tight around the waist. He gets a whiff of her coconut shampoo and suddenly it’s like he’s seventeen again, and there was nothing in the world that mattered more to him than making the light in his girlfriend’s eyes glint with happiness.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs, gruff, by her ear. Did she shiver? He ignores it, and the instinct to breathe in, hold her tighter. “What’s up?”

 

“Nothing,” she mumbles. She pulls back, looks at him. Her gaze is clear, her lashes down. He can count every one of them. She traces two fingers, light, dancing, across his jaw - his mouth. Before he can purse his lips against her fingers, she says, softly, “I’m just really happy for you. And proud.”

 

“Thanks.” And because they’re friend - just friends, he tells himself, sternly, because she’s going back toMcClaren tonight, even though Peter’s beginning to realize how much it’s going to kill him, knowing that simple fact - he gives her a kiss, soft, no more than a ghost, on her forehead. “I’m happy for you too.”

 

*

 

Lara Jean manages to hold it together all the way to her house. Dad’s surprised to see her, Trina suspects something is up, and Kitty knows something is up, but Lara Jean puts her game face on. Tells them she wanted to pick something up for Margot’s wedding and it’s in Richmond so she decided to drop by. Makes it all the way through a late snack and heads off to shower.

 

In there, she sits down in the tub, hugs her knees to her chest.

 

She didn’t tell him about John, because what would be the point? Peter’s staying in Virginia. She’s staying in North Carolina. They made an earnest attempt when they were younger, and it fell apart. It hurt so much then. It will hurt even worse, later.

 

(It hurts now.)

 

What did John say? He wasn’t going to get in the way of Dipti going to her dream school.

 

And when Lara Jean wanted to go to UNC, Peter let her go.

 

And so it’s time for her to be the knight in shining armor.

 

Because even if he had shown up on her doorstep and there wasn’t John - even if they had gone to brunch after Christmas and realized they were still hung up on each other - the simple truth is Lara Jean can’t say that they would’ve gotten back together. Because a three hour twenty five minute drive is exhausting. And now law school and medical school ...

 

Lara Jean lets the water soak into her hair, down her face. It’s hot, near scalding, but she doesn’t care.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for something totally left field ...
> 
> I mentioned elsewhere Wild Horses had like three different ways it could’ve gone. I thought I deleted all of them but then I found this super rough draft. 
> 
> So this would’ve happened after LJ goes up to tell Peter his dad showed up at her place. Instead of telling him that she broke up with John (thus leading to friends with benefits shenanigans) this happened.

“Thanks for letting me know. Appreciate it.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

They let the sounds of the party drift over them, a mindless thrum. Peter stares off into space, thumbing his lower lip. The silence between them isn’t exactly awkward, but he’s wondering what to say. If he should say something. If he’s making something a bigger deal than it really is.

 

Instead, to make conversation, he broaches, careful, “So did you hear back from med school?”

 

She nods. “Yeah. I got into Wake Forest. And UNC.”

 

So. North Carolina, again. He smiles. “Yeah? Awesome. Congrats. When did you find out?”

 

“Few days ago. Only my family knows.” She seems oddly quiet about it. “Did you hear from law school?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I got into Washington and Lee. Guess I’m a Virginia boy at heart.”

 

She smiles, a bit wavering. “Congratulations. Your mom must be so proud.”

 

His answering smile is soft, grateful. “Thanks,” he says, and says, feigning dismissiveness, “She kinda went bananas. Embarrassing Facebook posts and everything.”

 

Her look is knowing. “Oh not the embarrassing Facebook posts.”

 

He laughs. “Yeah.” He nods up at the party. “Do you want to come in?”

 

She shakes her head, nods over to the car. “I should head back.”

 

“You’re kidding. It’s late.”

 

“It’s not mine. I’ll be ok.”

 

“At least go back to your Dad’s. The ride is like, a third of the time. If that.”

 

“Aly will freak -“

 

“Yeah, she’ll get over it,” Peter says, pointed.

 

“When did you get so practical?” she murmurs, and he’s wondering if he heard admiration there, or if he just imagined it.

 

He smiles at her, gentle. “I grew up a bit.”

 

He wants to say, because of you. But doesn’t. It’s not the thing to say to a girl who’s got a boyfriend.

 

He holds out his hand. “Leggo,” he says, and together, they step off the stoop and head towards her car. Peter loosens his grip as soon as they hit pavement, but for some reason she twines her pinky round his. He looks down at her, questioning, but her gaze is at her feet, pensive.

 

When they get to the car, he holds the door open for her. Before she gets in, she turns around, squeezes him tight around the waist. He gets a whiff of her coconut shampoo and suddenly it’s like he’s seventeen again, and there was nothing in the world that mattered more to him than making the light in his girlfriend’s eyes glint with happiness.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs, gruff, by her ear. Did she shiver? He ignores it, and the instinct to breathe in, hold her tighter. “What’s up?”

 

“Nothing,” she mumbles. She pulls back, looks at him. Her gaze is clear, her lashes down. He can count every one of them. She traces two fingers, light, dancing, across his jaw - his mouth. Before he can purse his lips against her fingers, she says, softly, “I’m just really happy for you. And proud.”

 

“Thanks.” And because they’re friend - just friends, he tells himself, sternly, because she’s going back toMcClaren tonight, even though Peter’s beginning to realize how much it’s going to kill him, knowing that simple fact - he gives her a kiss, soft, no more than a ghost, on her forehead. “I’m happy for you too.”

 

*

 

Lara Jean manages to hold it together all the way to her house. Dad’s surprised to see her, Trina suspects something is up, and Kitty knows something is up, but Lara Jean puts her game face on. Tells them she wanted to pick something up for Margot’s wedding and it’s in Richmond so she decided to drop by. Makes it all the way through a late snack and heads off to shower.

 

In there, she sits down in the tub, hugs her knees to her chest.

 

She didn’t tell him about John, because what would be the point? Peter’s staying in Virginia. She’s staying in North Carolina. They made an earnest attempt when they were younger, and it fell apart. It hurt so much then. It will hurt even worse, later.

 

(It hurts now.)

 

What did John say? He wasn’t going to get in the way of Dipti going to her dream school.

 

And when Lara Jean wanted to go to UNC, Peter let her go.

 

And so it’s time for her to be the knight in shining armor.

 

Because even if he had shown up on her doorstep and there wasn’t John - even if they had gone to brunch after Christmas and realized they were still hung up on each other - the simple truth is Lara Jean can’t say that they would’ve gotten back together. Because a three hour twenty five minute drive is exhausting. And now law school and medical school ...

 

Lara Jean lets the water soak into her hair, down her face. It’s hot, near scalding, but she doesn’t care.


	11. Chapter 11

Their fourth place is paradise. Laundry in the basement. A dishwasher. (A _dishwasher_! Tiny and loud but it washes actual dishes!) And an honest-to-god bathtub, set on white and black penny-tile. The wonders of being able to afford nicer things now that she’s in her second year of residency, with an actual (small) paycheck, and now that Peter’s “kicking ass and taking names” (as he calls it) at the firm. It’s almost like stepping into a five star hotel, and she can’t quite believe that everything here is actually theirs. Well, their landlord’s, but basically theirs. And maybe more like a three star hotel, but compared to places two and three, it is, actually, paradise.

 

Which is why Peter being in such a weird mood is confusing her.

 

They’d both taken a long weekend in order to move in and unpack and get more furniture because now they have three bedrooms. Well, two bedrooms. The third is just barely the size of a closet and is going to be the office/dumping ground. Lara Jean is scrubbing the bathtub while Peter is unpacking the office stuff - stacks of their old grad schoolbooks and important paperwork. Or at least he’s supposed to be, because he suddenly saunters in.

 

“Hey. Wanna take a break?”

 

Lara Jean looks up, blows a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “No, I want this done before tonight. You know how creeped out I get if I don’t clean the bathroom before we actually move in.”

 

“Okay. How about later? Half an hour?”

 

He seems really pointed. “Uh, yeah. I guess. Why?”

 

He takes a seat on the edge of the tub. “Thought we’d take a walk. See the sights.”

 

_Huh?_ “See the sights?” They’ve lived here for around six years now. There will, of course, be so many new things to discover in this city, but “the sights” is not one of them.

 

“Yeah. Thought we’d go to the Empire State Building.”

 

Now Lara Jean laughs. “There? We haven’t been there since - my god, was it the senior trip? And that’d such a touristy thing to do.”

 

“Well we have the time off ...”

 

“Yeah, to _unpack,_ ” she reminds him. “We’re not tourists anymore. At least, I hope not!” She shudders. “Anyway, no. There’s so many boxes left. And I need to get this done.” She smooches his cheek and bends over the tub again, turning on the cold spigot.

 

“Sure. Okay.”

 

She doesn’t look up at the tone of his voice, too engrossed in scrubbing out the last of the mold from the grout. That night, they grab a pizza from around the corner and collapse into bed. Or at least Lara Jean does - just before she drifts off, she blinks and sees Peter still scrolling on his phone.

 

The next day, she’s rearranging the kitchen stuff, trying to get the small rolling cart that doubles as their so-called “island” organized to her liking, when he says, “What do you want to do for dinner?”

 

“Oh god, I can’t even think of cooking,” she mutters, deciding to put the baking utensils on the second shelf, second-guessing herself, and putting them back on the lowest one. “Maybe out?”

 

“Perfect,” Peter says, and hands her his phone. “How about this place?” The buzzer interrupts him - the second bedroom set has arrived. Peter goes to let the movers in and she frowns, scrolling through the menu in alarm.

 

“Peter. Are you out of your mind? This place serves two hundred dollar entrees,” she exclaims, when he comes back into the kitchen.

 

“Well, we don’t have to order those ones,” he hedges.

 

“The cheapest thing on this menu is fifty bucks!”

 

“So ... order that then.”

 

“Um, no,” she says, turning back to the island. “I’m not eating a fifty dollar spring salad that’s probably the size of a golf ball.” Something thumps, loudly, down the hall, followed by a yelled curse. “Oh god did they break something?”

 

Fifteen minutes later, after they’ve determined that the movers didn’t break anything, and Lara Jean’s back rearranging plates and cutlery in the kitchen, Peter says, “Okay. We’ll just grab dinner around the corner. Go for dessert. How about that cookie place?”

 

“What cookie place?”

 

“You know. That French guy.”

 

“... Jacques Torres?” Lara Jean pauses, so nonplussed she can only say at first, “He’s French Algerian.” Then, more pertinently, “You want to go all the way _downtown_?”

 

“Yeah.” Peter shrugs, rocks back on his heels. “Why not?”

 

“Because we’re still moving in and don’t have time?”

 

Peter turns slightly red, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to snap at her, but then seems to catch himself and says, “Fine. Whatever.”

 

Lara Jean furrows her brow at him as he turns on his heel and goes to check on the movers. By dinner time he’s in a better mood, laughing with her over Thai take out and bad reality TV programming.

 

It’s too dark to start trying to put up all their framed pictures, so after dinner Lara Jean decides to call it a night and take a bath. She honestly can’t remember the last time she took a soak with bubbles - all their past places just had closet-like shower stalls. And now the bathtub is nice and clean and ready to enjoy at her leisure . . .

 

She fills it half way up, probably adds too many capfuls of grapefruit bubble bath solution, lights a few candles, and sinks delightfully in. All the stress and frenzy of moving just seems to melt away.

 

The door cracks open.

 

“I already know what you’re gonna say,” Lara Jean says, eyes closed and head resting on the edge of the tub. “We should’ve put the bed on the opposite wall. But can it wait when Chris visits? That way there’ll be three of us to move that thing.”

 

There’s a pause before Peter lets out a low laugh. “Covey, can you please stop thinking of the move for like, a minute or two?”

 

“I can’t help it! It’s amazing.” Lara Jean opens her eyes and smiles up at him as he kneels down next to the tub. “For the first time I feel like it’s - it’s not our first place, but it’s like all the other places were temporary. And I know we’re only renting this place, and things can change, but it feels like ... like this is it. You know what I mean?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah I do,” he says, smiling fondly at her. “You got bubbles on your nose.”

 

“Whoops,” she laughs, and tries to brush at them, but only gets more bubbles on her face. They both snicker.

 

“Here.” Peter brushes them away with one hand - and then reaches with his other. Lara Jean leans forward, thinking he’s about to pull her in for a kiss, but instead nearly bumps her face into his hand.

 

His hand that’s holding a ring.

 

“Wha ...” She can’t get the word out. She blinks at the ring, blinks at him, sitting there with a blank expression on his face, like he’s just presented her with the freaking cable bill, not a ring. And not just a ring. _The_ ring. The ring she saw in that thrift store in the East Village. The aquamarine emerald-cut one, that was way too expensive because she’d just finished med school and Peter was only just finishing up his first year as a lawyer, and was still helping out with Owen’s tuition and barely making a dent on his own loans. The one that she immediately made a bee-line for, three months later, when they happened to be in the area and she wanted to “check something out for just a second.” The one that was gone, _poof!_ , and she’d sighed and thought, _Never_ _mind_ , before pretending she wasn’t disappointed and turning to look at some vintage postcards instead.

 

The one that she thought was gone forever, except it’s right here. In front of her face. Because the boy she loves, and who loves her ( _with_ _all_ _his_ _heart_ , _always_ ) got it. He got it for her.

 

He got it for her to ...

 

Lara Jean swallows, takes it in bubble-soaked, shaky fingers. “Is this what I think it is?” she asks, her voice low, because she thinks any higher it’ll crack.

 

“Yeah,” he replies, his own voice hoarse. “Had it for a while.”

 

“Yeah, I figured,” she murmurs, turning it in the dim candlelight. It’s just as beautiful as she remembered - the right shade of greenish blue, in a silver setting.

 

He crosses his arms on the edge of the tub, pillows his chin on them. Looks up at her, with those eyes of his that has always made her insides turn to mush, through his lashes. “I just thought - like you said - this place? This time it feels like this is it.”

 

She presses her lips together, to stop herself from crying. “Is that why ... Empire State ... dinner ... Jacques Torres?” Promposal. Senior trip. _This idiot. This stupid, lovely, cheesy idiot._

 

“Yeah. _Someone_ wouldn’t cooperate. I botched promposal –”

 

“You didn’t botch promposal!” she squeaks, horrified that he would ever think that, one of her most favorite memories of the two of them, ever.

 

“- I figured let’s do something special,” he continues, as if he hadn’t heard her. He pops a few bubbles in the water idly. “But you wouldn’t - anyway. There it is.”

 

“Anyway.” She smiles at him, teary-eyed. “Yes.”

 

“Yes as in yes?” Peter asks, as his face cracks from contemplative to grinning, and he reaches for her again.

 

Heedless of the water and the bubbles - of the fact he’s still fully clothed - she wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him close. Bathwater sloshes out of the tub, soaking his t-shirt. “Yes as in yes,” she murmurs, against his mouth.

 

He pulls back just a breath, so he can push the ring onto her finger - then they both crack up, because the ring’s huge and could fit two of her fingers ... and then it slides off straight into the bathwater, at which point Lara Jean screams and Peter yells and they have to fish it out, frantic. She finally finds it, breathless with laughter and nerves, and puts it on the soap dish.

 

“Jewelers this weekend,” Peter says, and then, amidst her surprised yelp, jumps into the tub with her, clothes and all.

 

Water splashes everywhere, out of the tub and onto the floor - some of the candles go out with a hiss. “What are you doing?!” Lara Jean shrieks, laughing, as he pulls her into his lap.

 

“Figured I owed you one,” he says, nuzzling her damp cheek.

 

She smirks at him, nuzzles his neck back. “I wasn’t fully dressed,” she reminds him, picking at the collar of his shirt.

 

“Yeah, some help would be nice,” he says, and she laughs as she pulls his shirt off.

 

And she finds another reason to love this place – another memory to fold into her heart, carry with her . . . the chill of the air against wet skin – the heat of the water, slick between roving hands – damp, open mouths and the husk of hot breaths – and the rising, swelling shudder of warmth all over her, through her, through him . . .

 

“I love you so much,” she whispers, afterwards. The water has chilled – she’s close to shivering, her back against his chest and his arms around her. But she doesn’t want to move, either.

 

“Love you too,” he whispers, into her ear. Then, almost hesitantly, “Do you really like it?”

 

She picks up the ring, still in the soap dish – turns it in the fading candelight.

 

“Because if you don’t, it’s cool – if you want a diamond, I can go – ”

 

_Oh._ And she realizes that might be part of the reason why he waited so long. All of her girlfriends who’re engaged or married have diamond rings. And she’s been to his firm parties – knows that those guys who grew up at country clubs wouldn’t dare think of getting anything less than a golf ball-sized diamond. But that’s those guys.

 

This is them.

 

“This is the most beautiful ring on the planet, so don’t you dare,” she says, and for emphasis, sticks it on her thumb. She turns a bit, and gives him a playful smooch on the cheek. “Besides, I have the perfect shoes to go with them!” Mint-green kitten-heeled scalloped Mary Janes. She’d been saving them for a special occasion. Now she knows what that occasion will be.

 

Peter stares at her, agog, then bursts out laughing into her hair. “Come on, I’m freezing,” he says, and stands up and helps her out. They towel off and drain the tub – she leaves his wet clothes in the tub to take to the laundry room downstairs tomorrow, he wipes up the water on the floor. And before they go to bed, he insists on a picture for Instagram, naturally – their twined hands, aquamarine ring on display, and a three-letter hashtag:

 

#yes

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha, I didn't realize I double-posted the last part, sorry!!!!
> 
> In the next coming weeks I'm going to try and make some changes to Wild Horses - correct some typos, change some mistakes (egads, I didn't realize I got Peter's little half-brothers' names wrong!) etc., but also to change John's physical appearance to match the casting for the second movie. :) So fyi for people who downloaded the fic!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey a new kavinsky ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't call it graphic, but this describes in pretty much accurate detail, what's it like to give birth. So if that makes you squeamish ... just a warning.

The first of the labor pains starts during her commute home. Lara Jean just attributes it to being tense - her surgery with Mr. Dyson had an unexpected complication, and she’d been on her feet, bent over his prone body, for far longer than she (and her back) would’ve liked. It’s not until she’s walking up the subway exit steps that it hits her again - a slow-building squeeze, like someone has taken their hand and clenched their fingers around a spot somewhere in the depths below her belly-button, that rises to a peak too noticeable to ignore, then fades. She stops mid-way up the steps, lips pressed inward together, breathing. Waits for it. People pass her by, muttering - no one likes a straggler here, this is one of the first things she learned when she started taking the subway on a regular basis - but she still waits.

 

Nothing.

 

Lara Jean takes another breath and continues home. It was another Braxton-Hicks contraction, that’s all. She’s been having them for weeks.

 

But then she’s walking up the stairs to the apartment, keys ready, and it comes again - like a Braxton-Hicks contraction. Just like it. Except ... different. Because there’s pressure, just bordering on pain.

 

Worrying her lip, Lara Jean walks into the dark apartment, leaves her bag on the hook by the door but takes out her phone. She shuffles into the bedroom, toes off her shoes, and climbs gingerly into bed. She leaves the bedside lamp off, and then silently does the math.

 

Around thirty minutes from subway stop to subway stop. She (maybe) felt the first one ... what? Ten minutes into the ride? Then there was the one going up the subway steps. And just now. So ... twenty-ish minutes apart?

 

_Okay. Okay. It’s still early. Just ..._

 

She turns on the TV, looks at her phone and brings up the contraction timer app she’d downloaded a week ago. Rubs her belly idly. Tries not to panic. During a commercial she thumbs in what she thinks were the start and end times of the last two contractions and puts down the phone.

 

She won’t call Peter until she’s sure.

 

Besides, she’s still furious with him.

 

*

 

_Are you awake?_

 

Lara Jean doesn’t really expect a reply – it is, after all, 2 am in England. But suddenly there’s a FaceTime coming through and with a swell of relief Lara Jean answers it right away.

 

“Are you in labor?” Margot says, bleary-eyed but awake.

 

And despite her guilt at calling her sister, who’s probably herself exhausted dealing with Evie and Gemma, Lara Jean grits out, “Think so.”

 

“Oooohhhh my gosh,” Margot squeals. “Ravi, Ravi wake up. LJ’s in labor.” She hears Ravi mumble something, obviously still very much asleep, which makes Margot roll her eyes affectionately. “Did you call Dad? What about Kitty?”

 

“No. No, they’re - uggghhhh wait a second.” Lara Jean closes her eyes and buries her face in the pillow - waits for the pain to subside. When she’s sufficiently composed, she says, “The contractions are only fifteen minutes apart now. I’ve got time.”

 

“Okay, okay. That’s good. Your OB said to go in when?”

 

“When they’re five minutes.” Lara Jean pauses the FaceTime and logs in the contraction, then brings Margot back on. “I’ll take a cab.”

 

“Good! Good idea. Okay.” Margot yawns. “Nervous? Oh, don’t be. I bet Peter’s more nervous. When we had Evie, Ravi was in absolute bits, he was practically useless – ”

 

“Was not,” comes an affronted mumble in the darkness.

 

“Peter’s not here.”

 

“Oh, don’t tell me he got stuck at the office again,” Margot groans. “Well I’m sure he’s on his way -“

 

“I didn’t tell him yet,” Lara Jean admits. “And he’s not at the office. He’s ... he’s in Detroit.” And then she bursts into tears, glad it’s finally out. “This case he’s been working on - it didn’t settle. It’s going to trial in Michigan. So the partner has Peter second chairing and - and – ”

 

And they had a huge fight right before he left four days ago, the biggest one - the worst one - they’ve had since they were kids.

 

_He knows your wife is pregnant, right? Like due in two weeks pregnant? He knows this and still asked -_

_He didn’t ask, you know it doesn’t work that way -_

_You could’ve said no!_

_Yeah, and lost my fucking job!_

_A job that you hate!_

_A job that we need because like you said you’re about to give birth and I’m not gonna be some fucking deadbeat when my kid is on the way -_

_A kid you might not even get to see because you’ll be in_ fucking Detroit _!_

 

“Oh, LJ,” Margot exclaims. She can see her sister move, probably to dash into the bathroom so they can talk more privately.

 

“I told him it was okay,” she sniffles. Not a lie. In the end she said it was okay, just go. But she’d turned her cheek to him when he’d tried to kiss her goodbye, and she purposely hasn’t answered his FaceTimes, only shooting him clipped texts when necessary.

 

Margot gives her a knowing look, and Lara Jean immediately regrets telling her big sister all this. “I’m fine,” she insists. She forces out a rueful laugh as she wipes her eyes. “I’m just mad that I’ve been going around hoping this kid would come early, and now that it is, Peter’s not even here.”

 

“You need to call him,” Margot insists. “Not even that terrible partner could say he couldn’t come back.”

 

“By the time he gets here the baby would probably be already -”

 

“That’s bullshit, LJ. Evie took 18 hours start to finish. If you just started, there’s a very good chance he can hop on a red-eye. What’s really going on?”

 

Lara Jean closes her eyes. The loneliness she’d felt from the moment Peter closed the door starts to overwhelm her. It didn’t used to matter, when he worked late nights – when she worked late nights. It didn’t used to matter, because that was just the two of them. He’d wait up for her with icecream or pizza – if he was on trial, she’d go to the firm, with a tray of cookies for all the attorneys and paralegals still chugging away, and sit in his office and read.

 

But they can’t do that anymore, can they?

 

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” she says. “I’ll call.” She checks the bedside alarm clock. “You go to sleep. I’ll let you know. I’m sorry I woke you.”

 

“Do you want me to call Dad?”

 

“No ... yes.” Lara Jean licks her lips. “No, I mean no.”

 

Margot purses her lips but acquiesces. “All right. You _will_ call Peter, right?”

 

“Yes.” Lara Jean nods. “I will.”

 

“Good luck, sweetie.” She gives her a big, encouraging grin. “You’re gonna be a mom!”

 

Despite the situation, Lara Jean smiles. “Thanks.” She hangs up, takes a deep breath. Then she brings up her text messages. Peter’s last text was from yesterday, late at night - _We’re choosing jurors tomorrow. Hope everything’s ok_. Her reply was short - _Everything’s fine. Good night._

 

He’s probably still knee-deep in trial prep, despite the time. It wouldn’t be a good idea to call. But what should she even type? _Get your ass back here_ is what she really wants to say but it’s so unfair because she knows, even though she’s angry and hurt, that he didn’t want to go.

 

So she types in the truth – _I’ve started having contractions._ She sends it, then curls into a ball - or at least as best as she can curl into a ball - on her side, clutching the phone on top of Peter’s pillow.

 

And she waits.

*

 

He was so happy when she told him. When she saw the second pink line, she immediately began thinking of all the different ways she could tell him. (Oh, and she’d _have_ to film it, because she knew he’d want to put it on Instagram.) Maybe a T-shirt, something cutesy written on the front – but she’d quickly nixed that one, he’d never wear it. Maybe a new entry in the scrapbook – but she couldn’t do that, because as a joke he keeps it on the bookshelf at work, and there was no way she’d be able to get it without somehow alerting him. Maybe she’d knit baby booties put it on his breakfast plate. But that would be so time-consuming. By the time she’d finish, she’d be ready to pop.

 

In the end, she was so nervous and emotional – hormones, probably hormones, she’d told herself – she just caved and blurted it out on a Sunday morning, when they were just drowsing and still not ready to get out of bed.

 

He didn’t even open his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

 

“ _What_? How did you know?” Did he guess? How could he guess?

 

“You left the test in the trash can. I saw it when I was taking the trash out three days ago.”

 

“You knew for _three days_ and you never –” She’d spluttered, sitting up in bed and hitting him on the shoulder repeatedly.

 

“Ow!” He’d sat up too, then scrabbled his hair. He’d yawned. “The better question is, _you_ knew for three days and didn’t say anything to _me!”_

 

She’d pouted, and flopped back down on the bed onto her side, crossing her arms over her chest. He flopped down to face her, too. “I just wanted to make it perfect,” she said, a little put out.

 

He’d smirked, and then said, softly, “It is perfect,” and smoothed his hand over her belly, even though it was still flat. She’d put her hand over his and squeezed, swallowing, hard, at the look in his eyes – gentle, and a little awed, and so very, very happy. And she couldn’t think of anything to say to him, except to lean forward and kiss his forehead, and whisper, “I love you.”

 

And he’d whispered back, “I love the both of you.”

 

*

 

She’s in the throes of another contraction when the door to the bedroom opens. “Hey,” Peter says, wheeling his suitcase to the side. “Guess who settled?”

 

Unable to reply, Lara Jean just draws herself inward, trying to count through the pain, her back to him.

 

“What? Are you still pissed?” He sighs. “Covey - look, I’m sorry. All right? I hopped on the first flight I could, as soon as we got the verbal from the plaintiff. Everybody else is still back in Detroit and I –”

 

“Wh - Why didn’t you - call?”

 

“My phone died, and I was about two seconds from missing the flight so I couldn’t charge - Covey? Lara Jean?”

 

“Shut uuuuuupppp,” she groans.

 

“What the - are you - why the _fuck_ didn’t you _say_ -“

 

Lara Jean ignores him, just grateful the pain has begun to subside. When she trusts herself to speak, she mumbles, “I texted. I guess not in time.”

 

“Right. Yeah.” He sits down on the bed, puts a hand on her shoulder. She still doesn’t turn around. “Um - so - how long ...?”

 

“Since end of work.”

 

“Okay ...” Lara Jean closes her eyes at the tone of his voice. Like he’s frustrated at her. He doesn’t get to be frustrated at her. “How far apart ...?”

 

“About ten now. Holding steady at ten.”

 

“Okay.” He waits for a few beats. Lara Jean just brings up the contraction timer on her phone again, logs the latest one in, and closes her eyes, trying to rest. She’s been at this for hours now, and she just needs some rest. She feels him take a tentative seat behind her on the bed, but neither of them say anything. She hears him shut off the television, but they’re still quiet.

 

And then, after another moment . . . “And your water -“

 

“I _told_ you before that only happens in the movies,” she almost snaps. He never listens.

 

“Are you still mad at me?” And Lara Jean looks up, over her shoulder at him, angry - because yes, she is still mad - she’s mad and she’s hurting, physically now too - but he looks so shocked, so hurt himself, like the day she’d tagged him out on her front porch, and just as young - that despite her rising fear at how much faster these contractions are coming, how soon it’s going to actually _happen_ \- she bites down on her tongue, to stem herself from yelling at him again.

 

“Oh-oh-ohhhhhh,” she manages to get out instead, because she can feel another one starting to crest, and she squeezes her eyes shut and clutches the pillow to her. She just barely feels Peter’s hand on her shoulder, rubbing.

 

When it finally ends, she mumbles, dazed, “No. Yes. Yes, I’m still mad, but I can’t think about that right now, okay? I just gotta - gotta concentrate on -“

 

“Yeah. Okay, okay. Gotcha. Come on.” Wordlessly, she struggles to sit up - Peter helps her to standing, already on his cell phone bringing up the Uber app.

 

“I’m not supposed to go in until they’re five minutes apart,” she mumbles, feebly, but also relieved.

 

He glares at her. “Just put on your shoes. I’ll get the other stuff.”

 

She walks slowly out to the hall, rubbing the small of her back. As she putters slowly about, slipping on her shoes and grabbing her purse, she hears Peter on the phone.

 

“Yeah, Mom? Yeah. We’re heading over to the hospital now. No, Mom, don’t come - you’d be driving the entire night, be realistic! Okay. Okay. Love you too ... Hey, Dan? Sorry for the late call. Yeah. We’re going right now. Yeah. Do you want to talk to her?” He comes out, hands her his phone.

 

“Hey, Daddy,” she says, struggling to keep her voice high and happy, not weepy. She isn’t that successful.

 

“Hey, sweetheart.” Dad’s voice, calm and soothing, is like a warm blanket and some of the panic that’s been stirring in her chest since she realized what was happening stills. “How’s it going?”

 

“Good, I’m okay,” she says, and she realizes she is. She’ll be okay. “I’m - uh - the contractions are about ten minutes apart. Sometimes fifteen, sometimes eight.”

 

“That can happen. How’s your heart rate?”

 

“Oh god Dad I haven’t even checked -“

 

“That’s okay, just wondering if you did. Trina and I are just gonna go and grab some things -“

 

“Dad, do _not_ drive over!” she exclaims. “I can’t be worrying about you guys while I’m trying to do this too. Okay?”

 

“Okay honey,” he says, eventually.

 

“Thanks Dad. We’ll let you know when -“ She pauses, there’s a sudden lump in her throat. “When the baby’s here.”

 

She can hear the smile in his voice. “Good luck, baby.”

 

“The baby or me?” she jokes, teary-eyed.

 

“Both my babies.”

 

She smiles, ends the call. Peter’s got her “go” bag slung over his shoulder – all the supplies they’ll need for a stay in the hospital with a newborn, from toothbrushes to the brand-new nursing pillow Chris bought for her to extra soft toilet paper. (“Aly, why do I need toilet paper?! I know for a fact the hospital -” “Girl. Trust me on this. You will need it. The softer the better. Just think about it.” “ . . . Oh. _Oh._ Ew.”)

 

He’s changed from his wrinkled suit into sweats and a faded UVA shirt. “Ready?” he asks, and she sees the look on his face - nervous, and pretending not to be.

 

She takes his hand, puts on a brave face herself. She knows the fight they had earlier isn’t done - that they’ll have to push through it again, and soon. But right now, she’s got bigger things to be concerned about, and she needs him here, with her, more than ever.

 

“Let’s do this,” she says, and together, they walk out of their apartment, to the waiting cab.

 

*

 

Sometime in the middle of pushing, Lara Jean has the presence of mind to thank god she decided to have an epidural. After the tenth - eleventh? She’s lost count - attempt to push with no luck, and only an oxygen mask as her reward because she’d begun to see stars from the strain, she couldn’t imagine doing this without any pain relief. Even with the epidural it’s become exhausting - and it’s just so weird, to not be able to feel the bottom of her body. She knows the delivery nurse is holding one of her legs - she can _see_ Peter holding the other - and to not feel it at all is bizarre, almost like an out of body experience.

 

“Okay, Lara Jean,” Dr. Shah says, looking at the monitor. “Here comes another contraction. One ... two ... and push -“

 

“Ahhh ...” And she bears down, as hard as she can, and _this_ time it’s like she feels a shift, a downward sweep of immense pressure, and oh _god_ that’s the baby isn’t it -?

 

“I can see the head,” Dr. Shah says. “I’m going to have to make an incision Lara Jean, are you all right with that?”

 

“Y-Yeah,” Lara Jean says, through the mask. She rests her head back on the pillow, tries to gather herself. _Almost there. Almost there ..._

 

“Incision?” She hears Peter ask, as the doctor gets to work. How strange to have someone cut into her and not feel it at all ...

 

“Episiotomy,” she mumbles, squeezing his free hand, the one that’s not lifting her leg up. “So I won’t tear.”

 

“Okay.” He looks a little grey. Lara Jean blinks up at him. She wants to ask how long has it’s been since the flurry of them checking in, getting hooked up, and her getting the epidural - since she started pushing. (It feels like hours. It feels like days.) She wants to ask if their parents called, or their siblings.

 

“Okay, Lara Jean, the baby’s almost here,” Dr. Shah says, setting down his instruments. “Another contraction is coming. Just one more push.”

 

One more ...

 

“One ... two ... and -“

 

“Come on,” she hears Peter say against her temple, and then she’s pushing again, the last one - and it’s like all the breath has left her body in one swoop, all the weight in her for the past thirty nine weeks suddenly gone, and when she blinks again all she can see is Dr. Shah, a silhouetted shadow against bright blinding hospital light, and he’s laying a red, wiggly, screaming and slimy thing on her chest, declaring, “Looks like you’ve got a boy!”

 

“Oh – oh!” is all she can get out, because all of a sudden there’s a swarm of activity around her - gloved hands yanking her oxygen mask off and trying to clean off the baby - her _baby_ , that’s her baby boy, their baby is a boy and this is Aidan - a nurse giving a laughing Peter some scissors to cut the cord - Dr. Shah telling her in a moment she’s going to have to push the placenta out - a nurse gently telling them that they’re going to have to take the baby soon for some tests (Aidan she keeps having to remind herself – she keeps reminding herself that he’s here, and he’s Aidan, not just “the baby”).

 

“I can’t I believe I did that,” she manages to say, dazed, as she looks at his scrunched-up, red, and slimy face. He’s still covered in goop and blood and it’s getting all over her half-naked chest and hospital gown and hands, but here he is. Aidan.

 

“ _I_ can’t believe you did that,” Peter laughs, and she laughs too because he sounds just as dazed as she does. He cups the baby’s head in one hand – and oh, he’s so small, so perfect – and puts an arm around her shoulders. He kisses her on the cheek, and says, voice raw, “You did good, kid. You did really good.”

 

“Yeah,” she whispers, because she knows she did, and this no time to be humble. _Wow._ Despite the goop on the baby’s face she leans down, and nuzzles her nose with his. “Hey, baby. Hey. Hello.” She closes her eyes, breathes him in, tries not to cry. Kind of fails, but it’s okay. Peter’s chuckle is a shaky puff against her temple, and her shoulders tremble. “Hello, Aidan.”

 

-tbc-


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi, i thought i'd try and add another one-shot here, since i haven't in a while and people have been asking. :) thank you for your patience!!!

Lara Jean suspects something’s wrong the morning of. She wakes up exhausted, even though she had a full night’s rest, as if she could sleep another three hours. But it’s 7 am, Aidan’s already banging on their bedroom door asking for a cup of milk, and there’s nothing to do but swing her legs over the side of the bed and call to Peter, already in the shower, if he wants some breakfast.

 

“Just coffee!” he shouts through the spray.

 

Peter takes Aidan to daycare - which he can actually do now, since he’s left that awful firm - and Lara Jean heads to the hospital for her rounds. It’s a non-stop flurry of consults until lunch, and she collapses in the rest room for a nap instead of a meal. When she wakes up - only because she’s being paged - she hurriedly eats a granola bar and downs a bottle of water.

 

Then promptly rushes into the bathroom to vomit it all up.

 

_Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit_ , she thinks, as she rinses out her mouth. Her face is slowly going from grey back to her normal complexion, and she tries to take a deep breath. It’s a stomach virus. It has to be.

 

Except she knows it isn’t.

 

She’ll have to think about the consequences later, and deal with this patient who apparently is throwing a blood clot. As she rushes to O.R. 5, peppering the nurse with questions on her way, she pushes the thought away that this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

 

*

 

It’s her fault.

 

They had that terrible fight, right before Aidan was born – and because she needed Peter there, because she wanted to pretend everything would be okay, and because Aidan was coming _right the hell now_ , Lara Jean forgave Peter.

 

No, that’s not correct. There was no time to forgive him, because Aidan was coming, and she was terrified, and she needed Peter. So she kept her mouth shut, and held Peter’s hand, and the baby came, and –

 

And she was so happy. Peter was so happy. She has a hatbox full of memories, he has the scrapbook she made for him back in high school – there are shots of them throughout the years on Instagram, on the walls. When they got engaged. When they got married. But she’d never seen the way his face lit up when they put the baby on her chest – the way his eyes followed him, when the nurses took him away to get him cleaned off and tested.

 

Her cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Her heart hurt every time the baby made a noise and she couldn’t get to him fast enough. There was this smell he had, right in the soft spot in the middle of his neck, that she began to realize was uniquely him – that now, at two years old, is still there.

 

And in that flurry and insanity that comes with having a newborn, and being so far away from family – and _help_ – she’d forgotten all about the fight. There was the baby to feed every two hours – sometimes every one and a half hours – through the night. There was so much laundry, so much that she’d stopped trying to fold it after it came out of the dryer. Aidan pooped and peed and spat up so many times Peter was constantly jogging up and down three flights of stairs to the apartment’s shared laundry in the basement. Sometimes they were really shit out of luck – literally – and there was nothing in the house because everything was still washing and/or drying, and all three of them were sitting around half-naked in the apartment.

 

Her breasts would hurt, badly. She was pumping – desperately pumping, when Aidan was sleeping – trying to build up her milk supply so she could freeze those tiny plastic bags for when she went back to work. There never seemed to be enough. And by the time the machine worked the very last bit of milk from her, Aidan was up and crying – screaming, desperate – and she couldn’t nap, and she’d have to take him and nurse him, wincing all the way. How he managed to get anything out of her after pumping was a miracle. How she managed not to cry every time he latched on was another. Her nipples were chapped and they sometimes bled, and the only relief those days was to walk around without a shirt or a bra.

 

But she was so happy, despite it all. Peter once burst out laughing when he found her standing in front of the oscillating fan, shirt off, trying to air-dry her sore breasts, and because she was so happy too, she’d laughed. She was exhausted, a walking zombie – but happy. When Peter would take Aidan for a blissful few hours and she’d wake up from a much-needed nap, and she’d find them both on the couch, the baby sleeping on his chest – when she was feeling up to going outside, and she’d watch the baby blink sleepily up at her from the stroller, his gaze curious and contemplative at all the new sounds of the city around him – when it was just the three of them, and Aidan would _finally_ pass out on the bed between them, and Peter would whisper, “Thank god,” and she’d laugh, and he’d ask, “Are you happy?,” she would look at him and say, softly, quietly, “Yes,” because she was, so very happy – she’d feel such love warm through her, all around her, and not even the exhaustion and the pain could dampen her spirits.

 

And then Peter’s paternity leave ended, and he went back to work, and . . .

 

It didn’t happen all at once. It was slow. The first week back lulled both of them into a false sense of security. He got back at a decent time – 6 pm, almost on the dot. She didn’t always have dinner ready at the table, but she did manage, one time, to make some sugar cookies for dessert. Nothing fancy – she didn’t have the time or the energy – but Peter gobbled it down and declared it the best she ever made, and she was so proud. It made her think they could do this. They could get through it, and by the time she’d go back to work in five months time, they would’ve settled into a rhythm.

 

But then came the inevitable – Peter’s hectic schedule came back into full force. Depositions outside of the city – sometimes in Jersey, or Conneticut. Briefs due by midnight in the federal district courts. Trials – and trial prep. Sometimes he’d come home at 6 and sometimes . . . sometimes he never saw Aidan awake. Sometimes he slept at the office. And he was so tired that when he was at home, he slept right through Aidan’s crying in the night. Suddenly, trading off during the night feedings just didn’t happen anymore. What little accumulated rest she’d managed to get herself in the days of Peter’s paternity leave soon evaporated.

 

Lara Jean lost it when, on a rare Saturday morning together, Peter took a sip of his coffee and remarked, “Wow, Aidan’s been sleeping well.”

 

“What did you say?” she’d mumbled, pouring herself an extra large mug.

 

“I said he’s been sleeping well,” he said. “This is what? The third night in a row he didn’t wake up?”

 

Lara Jean slowly put down the coffee pot. She sat down at the table, and blinked at Peter. In the swing, the baby gurgled.

 

“Are you fucking _kidding me_?!”

 

Peter looked up from his phone. “Huh?”

 

“He wakes up every night! Every single night!” Why her voice was going so high and squeaky and breathless she wasn’t sure, except that she couldn’t stop it, and herself. “He wakes up every two hours! Last night I didn’t manage to get into our bed! I was in the rocker the entire –“ She stopped, because Peter was blinking at her, his hand out, placating. She took a few deep breaths to gain control, but she could feel the heat in her face and her chest hurt. “I’m just very tired, I’m sorry,” she’d murmured, and then fled to the bedroom.

 

She woke up too soon after, Peter apologetically bouncing the squalling baby in his arms. “Covey, I’m sorry, but he’s – and I know you wanted to save the pumped milk for when you go back to work –“

 

“How long was I out?” she’d yawned. She felt half-delirious, like she was moving through water.

 

“Two hours.”

 

Two hours? Only _two_?! It felt like forever, and she still didn’t feel rested. Lara Jean sighed and collapsed into the rocking chair. She undid her robe and held out her arms for the baby and let her head fall against the back of the chair as Peter adjusted the nursing pillow around her waist for her.

 

“You can wake me up, you know. To get him in the middle of the night,” Peter said, after a moment or two.

 

She’d shrugged, struggling to stay awake. “I know,” she mumbled. “I just – it’s easier, sometimes – and you’ve been working, so . . .”

 

“Just listen, okay?” was all he said, and she’d nodded, grateful, and passed out for a little while longer while Aidan nursed.

 

His heart was in the right place, and for a while, she did wake Peter up in the middle of the night to take the baby. And she did feel more rested, more calm.

 

But then she went back to work. She was nervous, because god, what if she forgot everything? What if, in the middle of surgery, she’d suddenly be hit with a wave of misery for missing Aidan so much? Her heart clenched miserably the first day she dropped Aidan off at daycare – he’d been bawling, terrified and red-faced, reaching for her over the shoulder of the smiling daycare worker, eyes shining with accusation. Lara Jean’s grin felt tight, fake – her own tears threatening to leak through the corners of her eyes – but she’d waved at him, blew him kisses, and fled out the doors as soon as possible. She’d wept all the way to work, and it was like that for the first two weeks, the guilt eating at her, every time Aidan’s fat little hands clung to her shirt as they walked up the daycare’s steps. And it would hit her every time she breezed into the hospital, reviewing charts and doing consults, made tiny stitches into her patients’ bodies, and shook their grateful hands after every successful surgery, and felt secretly glad to be back.

 

She tried to make up for it in small ways – getting up before Peter could in the middle of the night, because Aidan _still_ wasn’t sleeping through the night – doing as much as possible to make sure she was the one picking Aidan up at daycare, grateful to see his gummy smile when she walked through the doors – withholding comment when Peter would text and say he couldn’t make it home for dinner. She stopped baking altogether, too tired and too busy to even care. Everything was like walking a tight rope, and refusing to see the middle of it fraying, thread by thread.

 

And then one night, Peter sat her down at the table, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and said, haltingly, that he’d got called into another trial – this time, in Boston.

 

“Oh,” was all that she could say.

 

“Are you . . . okay with that?” he’d asked, cautious, eyeing her.

 

“I . . .” Her mind was whirling. She’d have to do both drop-offs and pick-ups at daycare. The past month, they’d sort of winged it – sometimes it was Peter doing one, and she’d do the other – sometimes it was her both times during the day. Could she really do both? Consistently? She’d have to carefully schedule her surgeries. But even with that, emergencies happened all the time – how many times in her life had a three-hour surgery turned into six? Sometimes ten? “I – I need to get someone to get Aidan, sometimes. I’m not sure who . . .”

 

“Maybe Mrs. Cruz? She loves him.”

 

He didn’t look so convinced himself when he said it. Mrs. Cruz was their elderly neighbor, newly retired, and she adored the baby, but that was an awful lot to ask of someone whom they were merely on friendly terms with.

 

“I mean . . . I dunno,” she’d said, still processing. _He’s leaving me. He’s leaving_ us . . . “I – maybe it’ll be like last time? You guys settled . . . what’s that you always say? Most civil cases settle.”

 

Peter seemed to chew on his cheek even harder. “Yeah, usually,” he’d said. “But I dunno. This one – the plaintiffs are being real hardasses. I think if we do settle it’ll be last minute.”

 

“Right,” she sighed. “So . . . how long are we talking here? A week?”

 

He’d shifted in his chair. “Three.”

 

Lara Jean shot out of hers. “ _Three?!_ ”

 

“Covey,” he sighed, burying his hands in his hair, his elbows on the table.

 

“Three!” She almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. “Oh my god. Three weeks. I can’t do this, by myself, for three weeks!”

 

“Lara Jean!”

 

“He cries, _every_ time I drop him off,” she’d said, close to crying herself. Shit. No. She wasn’t going to be this hormonal wreck. She couldn’t afford to now. “You’re barely home for dinner.”

 

“So are you,” he says, quietly. “It’s not just my schedule that’s a mess.”

 

“No, but those are genuine emergencies!” she’d snapped. “That’s a huge difference. It’s not like I’m a first year resident pulling 48 hour shifts anymore. I can schedule my own surgeries. If I’m on call, I know days ahead of time. Not last minute. And _I’m_ the one who’s up all the time, with Aidan. Who has to be up all the time!”

 

“I _told_ you to wake me up when –”

 

“I shouldn’t have to tell you! You should get up yourself!”

 

“Lara Jean, I’m trying!” he’d shouted. They were both shouting at this point.

 

“Not hard enough. You don’t see him enough as it is!” Aidan started crying from the nursery. She’d looked down and realized she’d started leaking, the milk soaking through her shirt and down to her stomach. Defeated, she’d sighed and started stripping on the way to the bedroom, calling reassuringly, “I’m coming, baby.”

 

There was nothing she could do about it. He took a flight to Boston two days later, and she rearranged her entire surgical schedule, hoping against hope there would be no complications with any of them. But just in case, she begged Mrs. Cruz to help – and Kitty, even though she was all the way down in Philly.

 

“I usually have a good idea if a surgery is gonna take too long,” she’d said. “If it is, I’ll just have the nurse call you. You can take an Uber. I know it’s a long drive, but I’ll pay you back. I’m so sorry, I know you’re up to your eyeballs with grad school, but please, I’m in a jam.”

 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Kitty said. “You know I’ll do it for the little goober.” Then she said, hesitantly, so Lara Jean knew she was being serious, “LJ? Is everything okay, with you and Peter?”

 

“Everything’s fine,” she said, reassuringly. “I mean, this is stressing me out a little bit, but . . .”

 

“Yeah, but have you told him why?”

 

Lara Jean paused. No, she never did, did she? She’d just . . . yelled, and cried, because she was so tired, and so stressed out, and so worried . . . She just expected him to _get it_ , to understand, instantly, magically.

 

And all the while she didn’t understand him. Why he wouldn’t tell her why he still kept doing this job, this job that she knew he hated, because she could see the grey in his temples, the way he dragged himself out of bed every morning, even before the baby was born.

 

“Thanks Kitty,” she’d said. “Hopefully I won’t have to call you.”

 

She couldn’t call him, and ask to talk – she couldn’t, not because she was mad, but because she didn’t even know where to start. It was like she was full up to the brim with all these feelings, all of them confusing – love, anger, hurt, concern, worry – and there was only one way to lay it all out.

 

She wrote him a letter.

 

_. . . I took it out on you, because I’m mad at myself. I’m mad that I don’t have it all together, that I can’t stay awake to concentrate most days and that I’m so tired I can’t see straight. I’m mad because I felt guilty about being glad going back to work, even though I feel bad about leaving Aidan every day._

_But I’m also mad because I feel like you’re not around. Not mentally, but physically. I feel like you’re not around for me, and I feel like you’re not around for Aidan. But at the same time, I’m sad, because I know you’re not doing it on purpose, and you’re doing it because . . ._ She stopped, because it came to her, all of a sudden . . . _you don’t want to be your dad. And you’re not your father. All you’ve ever done is take care of me, and Aidan, and I know you’re trying to do that right now. Because that’s what you do, you always try your hardest and your best for us. I’m so so so sorry I said that you didn’t try hard enough. I was hurt._

_But I don’t want you keep toiling away at this job because you feel like you have to take care of us, because we don’t need that, we need you._

_Whatever happened to working at a non-profit? Whatever happened to working for people who needed help? You never talk about that anymore. You used to all the time in law school. Before law school, even. Our loans are almost paid off_. . . She stopped again, because knew this part was partially her fault, too. She’d gone to med school with the hopes of becoming a neurosurgeon, one of the highest paid professions in the field, but ended up falling in love with general surgery. It was good money – _great_ money – but not the kind of money that would’ve made their lives significantly easier. _I know a non-profit is a pay cut, but we can still afford to help out with Owen and your mom and Kitty._

_We’re very lucky to have you Peter K., even if you still do take the last pizza slice._

 

She mailed the letter to his hotel room in Boston. He called two days later, on FaceTime, late at night.

 

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

 

“Yes, but it’s okay,” she said, wiping her face. She rolled over onto her side, facing the spot on the bed where he would’ve been laying, and put the phone close to her face. He was still in his dress shirt, although his tie was loosened. “How’s the trial going?”

 

“Voir dire was a drag,” he said, shrugging, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “But opening arguments are tomorrow. Still working on it.”

 

“Do you want to go? It’s so late . . .”

 

“No, I was calling because I got your letter.” She watched him lie down on his hotel room bed – heard him kick off his shoes. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a dickhead.”

 

“No, you haven’t been a dickhead,” she said. “Thick-headed, maybe.”

 

“Thick-headed, dick-headed,” he said, and she giggled. He grinned, then sobered. “You were right,” he said, quietly. “I just kept thinking – when Aidan was born . . . how much I couldn’t screw this up. That I didn’t want him growing up thinking I was some deadbeat asshole who’d – who’d . . .”

 

“Peter,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “He adores you.”

 

“No, that’s gas, he’s not actually smiling – ”

 

She half-giggled, half-sobbed. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He’s going to think you’re the best dad in the world, because you are,” she says.

 

He’d nodded slowly. Even through FaceTime, she could see his throat working. “You’re a good mom, you know that, right?”

 

She’d closed her eyes. She didn’t know she needed to hear that until he actually said it. “Thank you.”

 

“I can’t do it now, obviously, but when I get home – I’ll start looking for a new job,” he said. “Either in-house, or non-profit. Both have better hours.”

 

They’d said their good-nights quietly. When he finally came home, one and a half weeks later – they did end up settling – Aidan looked up from his breakfast of stewed peaches and squealed, arms up and dirty fingers grasping to be picked up. Peter picked him up right away. He got peach stains all over his suit, but kissed the baby anyway. “Missed you, buddy,” he’d grumbled, gruff, against his bald head, and Lara Jean smiled before turning back to the sink. She wanted to give them both the time to themselves, peach stains and all.

 

It took a while, with lots of applications and interviews, but a few weeks after Aidan turned one, Peter finally submitted his two weeks notice and went to the ACLU. Money was tighter, as was expected. Lara Jean forewent baking with the expensive chocolate chips (but at least she was able to start baking again) and random trips to thrift stores; Peter canceled his gym membership and took to jogging around the neighborhood instead. If they spotted a pretty toy in the store that made Aidan’s eyes light up eagerly, they risked the inevitable meltdown. But Peter came back from work with an actual smile on his face and he seemed rarely tired anymore – relatively speaking, for a person with a young toddler at home. And Lara Jean finally found she could breathe again.

 

But now . . .

 

*

 

The noise hits her like a wall as she unlocks the door to their apartment. The tv is blaring Curious George, and she briefly spots Aidan, squealing, as he dashes to and fro across the living room. Lara Jean can feel a headache coming on, and she quietly toes off her sneakers and hangs up her rain jacket on the wall hooks, overflowing with random gear - Peter’s sweatshirts, Aidan’s tiny coats, her purses.

 

“Yo,” Peter calls from the kitchen. She hears pots and pans banging, but doesn’t poke her head through the doorway. He’ll be able to tell right away if she’s lying. “The bossman said he wanted mac and cheese. You want any?”

 

Ugh. No. The thought of it turns her stomach. Any thought of food turns her stomach, actually. But if she refuses he’s going to want to know why, and she can’t let him know why. Not yet.

 

“Yeah. Sure. I’m - I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”

 

“‘Kay.”

 

Lara Jean passes through the living room. Aidan’s stopped - for now - and is sitting in front of the tv, index finger in his mouth and clutching his favorite stuffed giraffe, a gift from Peter’s mother. “Hey, buddy,” she murmurs, stopping to kiss him on the head.

 

“ _Stop_ it, Mama!” He pushes her face away with the giraffe.

 

Lara Jean snorts, straightens - and then promptly gets dizzy. Shit. She takes a deep breath, then pads quietly to the bathroom and shuts the door - leans against the sink. The subway ride had been rough, all the flashing lights, the press of bodies, and the sway of the cars. Oh, the swaying.

 

It wasn’t like this with Aidan. Which gives her hope that this is some stomach thing. She’d thrown up twice, gagged a few times, max, during her first trimester. It has to be a stomach thing.

 

But, just to be sure . . . She undoes the child safety lock on the cabinet underneath the sink, and reaches in, searches through the baskets. Tampons, Peter’s disposable razors, her razors, children’s Tylenol, the forehead thermometer, adult ibuprofen . . . and an old pregnancy test, back from when they were first trying for a baby. It’s still in date.

 

She pees on the stick, puts the cap back on, and searches for a safe place to put it – she doesn’t want Aidan coming in and thinking it’s a new toy, or god forbid, Peter . . . he’d inadvertently found out she was pregnant with Aidan, and she’s still not sure how he’ll react this time. She finally settles on locking it inside the cabinet, washes her hands, and goes to dinner.

 

The boxed mac and cheese is making her stomach crawl, but Lara Jean puts a healthy spoonful onto her plate. If she _is_ pregnant, she needs to eat, nausea or no. She gets into a fight with Aidan over the broccoli – he’s in a phase right now where he hates it, despite practically chugging down the stalks not two months ago – and Peter’s trying to cut up the chicken for Aidan, when he says, “Lara Jean, are you okay?”

 

“Huh?” she asks. Her elbow is on the table, her face in her hand. The room is spinning. Her stomach is spinning. “I guess. I didn’t eat lunch.” She looks at her plate, at the mac and cheese, and then says, quietly, “Oh no,” before she stands up and rushes to the bathroom again.

 

“What wrong?” she hears Aidan ask, before she slams the door shut behind her.

 

She’s in the middle of dry heaving into the toilet when she hears the door open. Nothing’s coming up, which isn’t surprising, considering she barely ate anything today.

 

“Mama?”

 

“Hey, baby,” she mutters, sitting back onto her heels. She wipes her face, bleary, and opens her arms. Aidan comes over and pats his hands on her clammy cheeks.

 

“You okay?” he asks.

 

“I am. Mama’s just a little sick.”

 

“Okay,” he says, so seriously she almost smiles. “Eat dinner?”

 

“You go ahead without me. I’ll be right in.” She pats his bottom, and he scampers out of the bathroom, nearly running into Peter’s legs.

 

“Mama sick,” he announces. “She go bleh bleh bleh!” Then he runs off.

 

Lara Jean leans against the wall, next to the hamper. She looks up at the ceiling and closes her eyes, as Peter squats down beside her. He puts a hand on her forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Stomach bug?”

 

She opens one eye. He looks a little worried. She opens the other eye and takes a shaky breath. “Check under the sink.”

 

He cocks a brow, confused, but obeys. She pulls her legs into her chest, rests her chin on her knees. “Shit,” she hears, and then he scoots backwards, until his back hits the wall and he’s next to her. The back of his head thunks lightly against the wall. “Well. Looks like you’re pretty knocked up.”

 

Lara Jean nods slowly, mouth pinched. They’d never talked about having more kids. Sure, they did, back when they started trying for the first time – they both had siblings, they wanted more than one, but then . . . then, they actually _had_ a baby, and life didn’t become a naïve, young dream of possibilities, but instead, seemed to explode, not even in one big bang, but smaller, successive bangs, until it became a crazy, uncontrollable whirlwind.

 

And then, it started to calm down. It was still crazy, and there were days when she felt like it was uncontrollable all over again, but – they dealt with it. Are dealing with it.

 

Now . . .

 

“We’re gonna have to clear out the third bedroom,” Peter muses, setting the pregnancy test on the floor.

 

“The third bedroom is barely a closet,” Lara Jean says, quietly. “We’re gonna have to get a new place.” A bigger place. More money.

 

“We can keep them in the same room for a little bit. The new one can stay in our room until they can share.” He frowns. “His room is small, though.”

 

“Bunk beds, maybe,” Lara Jean says, muffled, into her knees. And then, to her horror, “Oh god. I have to get us on the waitlist at daycare.” They’d been waitlisted at everywhere, even before Lara Jean was in her second trimester with Aidan.

 

“That bill is gonna be shit.” Peter groans. It was already shit, with Aidan in fulltime. And infants are even more expensive than toddlers . . . He seems to pull himself together, and then, biting his lip, ventures, “Maybe – I can always – “

 

“ _No!_ ” Lara Jean exclaims, grabbing his hand. “No, don’t go back there. I don’t care if I have to start buying Entenmann’s on sale, you’re not going back to private practice. Got it?”

 

At this, he starts laughing. He slings his arm around her shoulders, pulls her close. Despite herself, she’s laughing too, and she settles in his lap – puts her face in his neck. He rubs her back, gently. “Are you okay?” she murmurs, close to sleeping. “I mean, are you okay with –“

 

He hesitates, then says, honestly, “Yes, but I’m not gonna lie, it’s gonna –“

 

“Suck?”

 

“ _No_. Stop it.” He shakes his head. “I was gonna say, it’s gonna be an adjustment. But . . . we’ll get through it. Right?”

 

She looks up. He’s holding out his fist. With a limp smile, she bumps his with her own – then cups his chin and kisses him, light, on the mouth.

 

“You smell like puke,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

 

“Shut up,” she grumbles, moving to stand. “We need to get the kid before he sets something on fire.”

 

As if on cue, Aidan streaks past the bathroom door, completely naked and holding his soiled diaper. “Whoa!” Peter yells, running into the hall. “Where the hell did your clothes go?”

 

“Pee-peed on couch,” Aidan calls, running into his bathroom, and slamming the door shut before either of them can stop him.

 

 -tbc-

  


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the last of the mini one-shots in this universe. i've tried to fulfill some of my most-requested stuff. if i didn't get to it, i'm very sorry.

“I’m just saying if you and the other defenders were doing their damn jobs -“ Peter says, hauling his bag over his shoulder as he and Eric make their way out of the locker room and towards the side exits.

 

Eric rolls his eyes, still shaking water out of his hair. As Peter pushes the door open, Eric snaps, “And I’m just saying don’t get your panties in a twist because you -“

 

“Peter. Hey.”

 

Peter stops dead in his tracks, so abruptly that Eric plows straight into his back. They both right themselves before Peter can collide with Lara Jean, who’s waiting with Deanna and Lily and clutching a Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies and a Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate.

 

“Hey,” he says, unable to keep the ridiculous grin from overtaking his face. Lara Jean just grins back. “Those for me?”

 

Behind him, he hears Eric snicker and he kicks his foot out blindly to snag him but misses.

 

“The drink is for me,” she says, and her smile turns a bit shy. “But the cookies are for you.”

 

“Don’t worry, we taste-tested some for you,” Deanna chimes in, coming forward to wrap her arm around Eric’s waist. Lara Jean blushes and Peter can feel his own ears go hot, because there’s no way Deanna would know their joke, but still.

 

“We’re gonna catch up with D,” Lily says. “Wanna come?”

 

“Um ...” Lara Jean looks up at him, her lower lip caught in between her teeth. He looks back.

 

“Uh, no thanks. See you guys later,” he says.

 

Deanna and Lily exchange glances. Inside, Peter groans. He’s gonna catch hell for this tomorrow. He glares at all three of them pointedly as he puts a hand on the small of Lara Jean’s back and guides her out towards the parking lot.

 

“So - uh, when did you get here?” he asks.

 

“Tried to get here for the start, but parking was impossible. I ended up parking closer to yours and walking over. Made the last twenty minutes maybe?”

 

“Oh good, then you saw my awesome score,” he brags.

 

Lara Jean snorts as she climbs into his Jeep. “Show off.”

 

He laughs and starts the car. “I’m kinda wiped. Do you just want to order a pizza and chill?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He calls the pizzeria that’s down the street from his apartment. By the time they find parking and make their way to the front steps, the delivery guy is already waiting for them. Peter pays - even after Lara Jean tries to hand him some cash - and they head up to his place. She leaves the Tupperware of cookies on the kitchen counter. Dinner is hasty and eaten in companionable silence on the couch.

 

He starts to feel the effects of the game and the food mid-way through his third slice, and abandons it in favor of sinking back into the couch cushions, head resting on the back of the couch. Covey’s just channel surfing. He eyes her, contemplative. He feels a little ... guilty isn’t the right word for it, but it’s the only word that he can think of, for what happened last weekend. They haven’t talked at all since they fooled around. He’s not really sure _what_ to say. He’d been working up the courage the past week to text and nothing that made any lick of sense would come up.

 

“So, uh, how’re you doing?” Smooth. Real smooth.

 

Covey looks up, shrugs. “Um, nothing much.” She pauses, then says, haltingly, “I was on my way to see my family. Kitty’s been . . . anyway, Trina wants to do a girls only brunch tomorrow. So ...”

 

“Oh. Right. That’s nice.”

 

“Yup. Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

 

They don’t look at each other. Peter checks his phone. It’s not that late, but it’s late enough where he’s worried about her driving from here to her dad’s.

 

“Um, I’d better get going -“

 

“Do you want to crash here?” he blurts out at the exact same time. Lara Jean’s eyes widen and he wants to bang his head against the wall. “I didn’t mean like that. I meant just crash. It’s late.”

 

“Oh, um ...” Her face goes red. He can feel his own neck heat but plays it cool. He’d really meant just crash. That’s it. Besides, he’s so tired from the game that even if he _had_ meant otherwise he doubts it could happen. But then Lara Jean says, “Um, okay. Okay. I’ll take the couch.”

 

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll take the couch. You can use my bed.”

 

“But it’s your bed. You just had a game -“

 

“I’ll live.”

 

“No, you take the bed. I’m fine here. Honestly.”

 

“Covey.”

 

She sucks in her bottom lip. “Well, what are you friends gonna say when they come in and see you on the couch?”

 

“They’ll give me just as much shit, if not worse, if they see you on the couch instead.”

 

“ _Peter_.”

 

“ _Covey_.” He sighs, again. This is getting ridiculous. She looks at him. He looks back. Then he stands and holds out his hand, and she takes it - and he leads her to his bedroom, silent.

 

Inside, they toe off their shoes. He slides out of his jeans but keeps his shirt and boxers on - turns his back and feigns putting away his clothes in the hamper as Covey gets undressed. Does a double-take when he realizes she’s stripped down to her underwear only but doesn’t say anything, because she’s slipping into his bed, back to him.

 

Carefully, he gets in beside her. Debates for a half second over whether to put his arm around her, like they used to do. But then Covey turns around to face him, chin peeking over the edge of the covers - and before he quite knows what’s happening himself, she’s leaning forward and kissing him lightly.

 

Peter pulls away after a few minutes, when the temptation to glide his hands down her body becomes too much. “Hey,” he murmurs, pushing some of her hair out of her eyes. Her eyes are downcast and he can’t see her expression in the darkness.

 

“Hey,” she whispers back. Then, hesitant - “I’m sorry. If I made things - you know - weird. Between us.”

 

He chews his lip. “Thought I was the one who did that.”

 

“I guess we’re both to blame then.”

 

Peter cups her cheek. She leans into his palm, looks at him with such tenderness in her gaze that his throat dries up. He leans forward again and kisses her gently, softly - but when she tries to pull him closer, he pulls away. “I - don’t think -“

 

“Oh. I’m - sorry - I thought -“

 

“It’s not that,” he says. Although. Probably not a good idea, given what happened last week. “I’m totally wiped.”

 

“ _Oh_.” She smirks but doesn’t say anything more. “It’s fine.” Then she yawns, and they both snicker. “Good night.” She turns her back to him, and he puts an arm around her waist - buries his face into her hair, breathes her in. They’ll have to talk. They need to talk.

 

But right now, he’ll take whatever he can get of her, drink her in, and pretend.

 

*

 

Lara Jean blows on her nails, trying to dry the polish while she scrolls through her pictures on her phone. She’s been waffling about this for god knows how long now, and had thought doing her nails before Peter comes to stay the weekend would distract her. No such luck.

 

_It’s important to him._ He hadn’t said it, didn’t even mention it once, but she knows him. It’s why he’d snapped at her back in high school, when they were confused and muddling through that fake dating debacle – why he’d asked, out right, when all that drama was behind them – and why she knows, when she and Theo went Instagram official, Peter unfollowed her.

 

(Yeah, she noticed.)

 

So, she figures she needs to make a grand gesture, this time. Even though she’s never been the type of person to be _that_ kind of person on social media. There were never many pictures of Peter – or Theo, or John – on her gram.

 

The issue is – _what_ to post. An old pic, back from high school, doesn’t seem right. They don’t have _anything_ recent – never took anything while they were doing fake dating 2.0 (she refuses to call it friends with benefits), and she only just got back from England last week and had to dive straight back into UNC.

 

Finally, she picks up her phone and fiddles around for several selfies . . . decides on one where she looks appropriately cute – freshly painted nails prominently on display as she curls her fingers around her chin, mascara on point. Labors over the caption for an additional five minutes, before hastily typing in, _Waiting for the bae_ , and tagging Peter. Then she throws her phone onto her bed, and lolls about until she finds a comfy position, face red and breath racing.

 

Fifteen minutes later, when Peter finally strolls in, she’s decided she’s going to nudge him to check out his feed, but he surprises her by opening his laptop. “Thought we’d take a look at these,” he says, lying back on her bed pillows.

 

She checks the screen – they’re apartment listings. New York apartment listings.

 

“I know it’s kinda soon, but _everybody_ keeps telling me how difficult it is to find something there –“

 

“No, I get it, I love it,” she says, happily. “I, um, already sent in my NYU deposit.”

 

He grins. “I sent in mine to Fordham yesterday.”

 

She smiles back, then grabs the laptop from him and settles in next to him. After a few minutes of checking out their prospects – which, she has to admit, doesn’t look good (oh my _god_ at the prices and _oh my god_ at the square footage) – she feels her phone buzz somewhere near the vicinity of her socked foot. She abandons the laptop and unlocks her phone.

 

Peter’s just replied to her post, with a blue love heart.

 

Thus satisfied, she smiles, puts down her phone, and snuggles next to him. He puts his arm around her, but his eyes are still on his phone, scanning his feed.

 

“Thanks for humoring me,” he says, after a while.

 

“You’re very welcome,” she says, knowing what he really means.

 

*

 

The first time they find a roach in the apartment Lara Jean freaks out – which Peter honestly doesn’t blame her for, because that motherfucking thing is _huge_ and _he’s_ freaked out – but someone has to get rid of it, and that someone is him. It’s a valiant struggle, involving multiple thrown shoes and finally an empty jar of spaghetti sauce but then there’s the problem of trying to slide a piece of paper underneath the opening to flip the jar and _of course_ that fucker escapes during the process. Finally, he just bites the bullet, puts on his old lacrosse cleats and stomps on the thing.

 

It’s nearly midnight, they’ve both got their first classes tomorrow morning, and they’re both kind of freaked out.

 

Not, exactly, how he pictured living in New York. It’s actually nothing like how he pictured living in New York. At eighteen-years-old he’d wanted a high rise with a doorman and a gym, the insides tricked out with slick furniture and wall-to-wall windows. Lara Jean had wanted a brownstone. He’d told her they’d work it out.

 

And they did. Kinda. A studio, with the occasional roach (apparently), is the perfect compromise. Right?

 

“Well, that was fun,” she yawns, crawling into the pull-out. He shuts off the lights and follows. They lie shoulder to shoulder. “I can’t believe we start classes tomorrow.”

 

“Mmph,” he grunts, eyes closed. Sleep. Sleep is good.

 

“Do you want me to pack you a lunch?”

 

He snickers. “What, like a mom? I’m a big boy.”

 

She snickers back. “That’s a yes, then.”

 

He bumps his shoulder against hers. She bumps back. He’s almost asleep when suddenly, she whispers, “Peter, what if there’re more?”

 

His eyes pop open. _Well, fuck_.

 

*

 

Lara Jean yawns, rolls her head around – tries to work the kinks out of her neck. She reaches for the plate of cookies on the bed, only to come up empty. Frowning over the edge of her textbook, she glares at Peter. Typical. He’s hunched in the beanbag, munching on the last lemon cookie, brow creased over his laptop.

 

_Well, at least he’s eating._ She’s never seen him so stressed over school before. But that had been high school, where it literally didn’t matter if he did the bare minimum to get Cs, because UVA’s lacrosse coach was knocking on his door. And, well, they were long-distance for the first half of college – and then they broke up – so she technically never _did_ see him study back then, not really. This is new, and she knows it’s because of his scholarship to Fordham. He has to maintain at least a B.

 

“Which I dunno if I can get because my 1L class is full of curve-breaking smarty-pantses like you,” he’d told her last week, bent over his Real Property outline.

 

“Which you will get because you obviously did well at UVA to get said scholarship,” she’d reminded him, but he’d only grumbled something about getting lucky on his LSATs.

 

Lara Jean stretches and looks at her watch, then outside at the single window in their studio. Lights glitter from the darkness and the sound of traffic has dulled, but it’s still thrumming, because, of course, it’s New York.

 

It’s late. Her first final exam of the semester is two days from now – Peter’s first is in three. It’s late, and it’s cold outside, and they’re both stressed.

 

“Let’s go,” she says, shutting her book with a snap.

 

“Huh?” he says, not looking up.

 

“I want to go exploring!” she declares, flopping onto her belly and pillowing her chin on her hand.

 

“No, I gotta work on this Contracts outline,” he says.

 

She snorts. When did the roles become reversed? Back in high school, it was always him trying to get her to loosen up – to draw her out. And it’s still that way, in many ways – he’s still the life of the party, always chatting and making new friends at one of her med school soirees or his law school functions or when they’re just out and about in the neighborhood, with his easy smile and charm. But she’s kind of surprised herself with how sometimes, she’ll be the one to poke him and take his hand and say, “Let’s go!” It’s so odd. And funny.

 

“Please?” she asks, smiling winningly up at him. “We need a break. Refresh! Recharge! Seize the day!”

 

“You mean night.” He says, finally looking at her. She can feel her smile grow brighter, answered and mirrored in his own. He shuts the laptop. “Okay. Lead the way.”

 

It’s New York, so something’s always open. A coffee shop, a restaurant, a bar – something. They’ve lived in this studio for a few months now, and there’s always some new place to explore, and so it shouldn’t surprise her when they find a place buried a few blocks away, serving cheap(ish) food and alcohol with a small band playing low-key jazz. There’s not many people, and they’re in a booth that can sit six, so Lara Jean leans against the wall and Peter sits between her legs, his back against her chest, and she hugs him close to her. The booth’s fake leather is cracked, the table sticky with god knows what, but she just plays with Peter’s hair, content.

 

*

 

“Ohhhh, how loooooovely,” the redhead coos over Lara Jean’s hand.

 

“It’s sooooo beautiful,” the blonde says, but not as enthusiastically.

 

“It’s certainly unusual,” Vanderhaven says. He looks up at Peter. “Which jeweler did you go to?”

 

“Oh, Billy,” the blonde says, laughing. She winks at Lara Jean. “I guess he’s finally getting the hint! But he knows I won’t settle for anything less than Tiffany’s.”

 

Lara Jean laughs, but Peter just concentrates on swallowing his beer, so he doesn’t need to slam it into Vanderhaven’s face. Throwing down with a more senior associate when he’s just barely a second year at the annual firm party is not a good idea. But Peter knows the kind of look this dickhead is giving him. The rich kid look. The “I had every birthday party at a country club and have a trust fund set up by my great-great-grandfather generations ago just to make sure I could give my girlfriend a diamond that could sink the Titanic” look.

 

“Oh, somewhere,” Peter says, eventually. “Can’t even remember. LJ, you want another drink?”

 

“Um – yeah, thanks,” she murmurs, and he excuses himself to grab another glass of wine for her from the open bar.

 

He finds her on the balcony, chatting with Michael. “I mean, she’s cute, she’s funny, she’s soooo smart,” Lara Jean is saying.

 

“I dunno, LJ, I hate blind dates,” Michael says, wincing.

 

“She’s also super judgey, so the two of you would be perfect together,” Peter says, handing Lara Jean her wine glass.

 

“You like Aly!” Lara Jean exclaims, as Michael says, “Heeeey,” insulted.

 

Peter shrugs. He personally thinks Aly never quite warmed up to him after the whole hooking-up-friends-with-benefits phase he and Covey went through towards the end of college, but she’s moving over to the city herself next week for a new job and Lara Jean is thrilled that one of her best friends from college is finally nearby, so he can’t say anything. Especially since she’s been trying to get Aly and his best friend from law school to get together for the past month.

 

“Look, you come over next week, we’ll go out to dinner, low-key, no commitment –“

 

“Can you please make her stop?” Michael says, jerking his thumb at her. “She’s relentless.”

 

Peter pokes her in the side. “Stop.”

 

Covey swats at his hand, pulls out her phone. “Look, this is what she looks like!” she says, trying to bring up her Instagram.

 

Peter pokes her again. “Stop.” Again. “Stop.” Again. “Stop stop stop stop – ”

 

“You stop!” she laughs, and finally manages to shove her phone in front of Michael’s face. “There! She’s gorgeous, right?”

 

Michael looks at her, to the phone, to Peter, to back to the phone. “And she’s coming over next weekend?”

 

Peter groans while Lara Jean hops up and down in her heels in glee. Before Michael can reply, he spots someone approaching from over Peter’s shoulder. “Shit. Partner coming.”

 

“Delacruz,” the partner barks. “Got a minute? I just had a client e-mail me.”

 

“S-Sure,” Michael says, and follows obediently. Peter gives him a sympathetic look. It’s not unusual at this firm to suddenly get an assignment on the weekend – but at the firm party . . . ugh. “Later, guys.”

 

“But Aly – ” LJ whines.

 

“Forget it, we’re not seeing him again for another month,” Peter says, putting an arm around her shoulder.

 

Covey sighs, rests her head against his chest. They both turn to the view – the glittering lights of the city in full display. “I found the dress,” she says, idly, after a while.

 

“Yeah?” Kitty and Trina had come up two weeks ago. He knows Margot FaceTimed in from England. But that’s about all he knows. “Is it nice?”

 

“It’s the one,” she says. Then she snuggles in a little tighter to him. “It goes perfectly with my perfect ring.”

 

He pauses – chuckles, because he knows she knows him too well. “As long as you look as pretty as you did at prom,” he says, into her hair. She really did that day . . . and he was a dope and couldn’t even say, back then, how beautiful she’d looked . . .

 

She squeezes him around his middle, doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

 

*

 

Everybody’s drunk. Even Dad. Her sweet father is drunk. A lot of the guests have already left, but the most important people are still milling about the stone back patio of the restaurant, sitting in chairs and drinking and chattering. When Lara Jean was still young, Dad and Trina’s backyard wedding had been ideal – romantic, intimate, lovely. When she grew up a little, Margot and Ravi’s became the standard – the way they incorporated both of their heritages, the cottage inn with its rambling English garden and stone patio rimmed with string lights and peonies.

 

Hers and Peter’s? Well. They wanted it in the city, and it turned out to be a mix of both. They had to keep it small and intimate because _oh my god_ at the potential bill. (But Peter insisted on lots of alcohol. The good kind. And Lara Jean insisted on a great bakery for the cupcake tier. Because if she couldn’t make them, then someone fantastic had to.) They found a small space with good food and a back stone patio that already came lined with tiny Japanese lanterns. She couldn’t get peonies at a decent price at this time of the year, but she’s more than happy with the light pink roses.

 

She didn’t dress in a hanbok, but right before the civil ceremony she gave the ducks to Margot, who cried, along with Dad. She got the perfect tea-length A-line lace dress (to go with her perfect ring), with three-quarter sleeves and a mint sash at the waist. She wore a fascinator, with a mini birdcage veil, because ever since Margot’s wedding in England all those years ago, she’s been – well, fascinated, with fascinators. That’s abandoned now, sitting on top of her mint-green scalloped Mary Jane heels on top of her chair. Her bare feet are on Peter’s lap, as he’s talking with Greg.

 

DeMarcus and Lily are whirling around on the patio, goofing off. Baby Evie is snoozing on Ravi, her head nestled onto his shoulder, as he chats with Margot and Kitty and Ashley. Aly is humming along with Michael’s soft guitar playing. Dad and Trina are just relaxing at their table, talking with Peter’s mother and Owen and his family. She catches Dad’s eye, and he smiles at her. She smiles back. She knows what he’s probably thinking.

 

There’s so many people here – Lucas and Andre, Chris (all the way from the Philippines, this time!), Darrell, Sav, their grad school friends – and they are all here for them, and it feels so very wonderful.

 

Greg gets up to find his wife. Peter shifts in his chair, she gets up and sits in his lap. “You okay?” he murmurs, after he kisses her temple.

 

“Yes,” she says, and winds her arms around his neck – breathes him in. She had the perfect ring, the perfect dress, the perfect night. The perfect boy. Okay, maybe she can’t call him a boy anymore, not really, but she’ll probably do it forever, like how he still keeps calling her Covey. Her handsome boy, the handsomest of all the handsome boys.

 

She feels him press another kiss, this time on her cheek. He holds her left hand in his, plays with the rings. It took her forever to get used to the engagement ring, and now she has to get used to the silver band accompanying it. His own wedding ring catches the light.

 

“You look so beautiful today,” he says, quietly.

 

She closes her eyes. “Like prom?” she whispers. It’s ridiculous that she feels like crying.

 

He snickers. She feels him nod. “Something like that.”

 

She snickers too. She doesn’t cry, but she’s close to it.

 

*

 

“Peter?” He looks up from his computer. Jeanie is at the door, looking at him from above the rim of her glasses. “Your wife’s here.”

 

“LJ?” he calls, and she sweeps inside.

 

“Thanks Jeanie,” she says. She opens the lid of her Tupperware. “Do you want some?”

 

“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Kavinsky,” she says, clipped, and leaves.

 

Lara Jean widens her eyes at Peter, teeth clenched. “Wow, she’s pissed.”

 

“She doesn’t like it when the WAGs come and visit after office hours,” he says, waving a hand. He starts unloading the stack of file folders and papers from the chair in front of his desk.

 

“I miss Rosalie,” Covey sighs. “She was a nice secretary. But, I guess anyone would be pissed stuck here past 9 pm.” She takes a seat, hands him the Tupperware. “And hello – WAG?”

 

“Wives and girlfriends.” He grabs a chocolate chip cookie from the Tupperware.

 

“She does know I’m a doctor, right?” she asks, taking her own cookie. “And my last name isn’t Kavinsky.”

 

“She’s from, like, 1952, so yeah, she does know, she just chooses not to believe it.”

 

Covey makes a face. “So tell her again!”

 

“I’m not getting into a fight with my secretary when I have a brief due at 11:59 pm on the dot,” Peter says.

 

Covey shrugs. She slips off her shoes and puts her feet on top of Peter’s desk, and pulls out a worn paperback from her bag. Peter smirks at her. Anne of Green Gables again.

 

“What?” she asks, when she catches him looking.

 

“Nothing,” he says, going back to the computer. “When I’m done, you want to get an actual dinner?”

 

“The diner?” she asks, not looking up from her book.

 

“Read my mind.” After a while, the only sound is her, quietly turning the pages, and him, clacking away at the computer – with the sound of the occasional cookie crunch.

 

Then – “What if I told you I’m not wearing anything underneath this coat?”

 

He laughs, unswayed, flipping through the case law print-outs. “I would say that you’re lying.”

 

“Lying? What makes you say that?”

 

“Because you’re Lara Jean Song-Covey, and you don’t do anything crazy.”

 

“Ah. Okay.” Something in her voice makes him look up. She’s smiling serenely at him, the book in her lap. “I’m just saying, I’ve been known to do some nutty things. Like . . . hot tub . . . driving down to UNC . . . climbing into your bedroom window . . .”

 

He narrows his eyes at her. She narrows hers back. But the side of her mouth is quirked up, just slightly.

 

“You almost had me there,” he laughs.

 

“Damn it,” she says, clenching her fist and laughing back.

 

He checks the time. “It’s almost 11:15,” he groans. “Look, I gotta get this done – ”

 

“Okay, I’ll be good,” she says, and goes back to her book.

 

“But at 12:00 am on the dot, I’m shutting this door and we’re fooling around on top of this desk,” he says, casually, making another edit to the brief on his computer.

 

Lara Jean squeaks in surprise.

 

 

*

 

They’re both not _quite_ drunk – okay, maybe they are – but Lara Jean doesn’t care. It’s hot for a spring night, and they haven’t put in the AC units yet, so the windows are open – the low buzz of late traffic and people walking, talking, laughing below matching the hum in her head. But she also doesn’t care. She just concentrates on Peter’s mouth, damp, on her throat – the way his teeth catches, just a little bit, on her skin, when she bears her hips down against his. She feels his thumb move against her clit and she clutches at the headboard, bites her lip, to stop herself from crying out.

 

Because it’s hot out, so everybody’s windows are open, not just theirs, and she doesn’t want – she can’t be loud – she doesn’t want the neighbors – to –

 

Weeks later, she will look at the two pink lines. She will smile, and look out the open window, and she will wonder if that night was the night. There will be no way to tell, of course, and she will know that (she’s a doctor, for god’s sake), but the part of her that will always be the dreamer, the wonderer, will think it was.

 

*

 

“Okay. Okay, come on. Let’s be quiet,” Peter hushes, as he bounces the baby against his chest, padding softly out of the bedroom. Aidan gurgles, and he settles onto the couch. Aidan screeches at the shift in position, so Peter jumps right back up, starts jostling him as he paces the small living room. It takes forever. But finally, the baby quiets, lying upright against Peter’s chest. As gently as possible, he lies down on the couch, head on the armrest.

 

He’s finally asleep. Thank the fucking lord.

 

“You are a freaking monster,” Peter murmurs, against Aidan’s forehead. “You’re driving both me and your mom crazy, and I bet you love it.”

 

As if in response, Aidan’s mouth opens. Some drool escapes onto Peter’s t-shirt, but he ignores it. The kid’s pooped and peed on every item of clothing he owns, a little bit of drool is nothing at this point.

 

“Listen, do me a favor, kid,” he whispers. “Just – stay asleep for a little while longer. Give your mom a break, okay?” Aidan’s silent. “Great, deal. Pleasure working with you.”

 

Peter yawns, blinks. He can feel the miniscule rise and fall of the baby’s chest against his – the tiny butterfly of breath. He studies the popcorn ceiling, the dots and swirls. He goes back to work soon, in a week. Jesus. It really flew. How the fuck they’re gonna do this when he goes back . . . Covey has a few more months left in her maternity leave, but if the kid is still up all the time . . . and he knows Anderson and Taylor are gonna slam him with work the second he gets back . . . They’ve already passively-aggressively sent him some e-mails, with a friendly, “Don’t open until you’re officially back!” in the subject line, but what that _really_ means is “read it, right the fuck now, and have an answer for me when you get back.” He’d already caught hell, leaving Detroit as soon as he could.

 

Michael had the right idea, leaving the firm when he did. (Hell, he and Aly escaped all the way back down to North Carolina.) Peter should’ve done the same – found a new job, a better job, a calmer job . . . But now . . . with Aidan here . . . well, he can’t. He just can’t. He’s not gonna be some deadbeat shit, let his wife and kid down, like – like . . .

 

Peter rubs Aidan’s back. Just before he drops off himself, he thinks, _Don’t worry, kid. I’ve got it covered. I’m not gonna bail on you guys. Never._

 

*

 

They get to Pilgrim Hill so early that only a couple of kids are there. Aidan’s still yawning and blinking but by the time Peter takes him down the slope he’s fully awake, screeching and clapping his hands gleefully. Lara Jean gets the perfect shot of them coasting down the hill on their fourth go, their faces scrunched up in twin faces of excitement that she _has_ to post it on Instagram.

 

_First blizzard in NYC covered. #centralpark #babysfirstsledride_

 

“Mama! Mama!” Aidan screams, when they get back to the top.

 

“Your turn, Covey!” Peter calls.

 

“Covey!” Aidan yells. “COOOOOOO _VEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_!”

 

Lara Jean groans, zips her phone back into her pocket, hikes up the hill. It’s remarkable how the city gets so quiet when it snows like this, everything muted, covered in beautiful white . . . She bends down to kiss Aidan when she reaches the top, his eyelashes covered in snowflakes, fat cheeks red from the cold. He looks like a winter angel.

 

“See what you started Kavinsky?” she says, as she and Peter exchange places on the sled.

 

He just grins, insolent, at her. “What? It’s your name.”

 

She huffs, and as Peter pushes them, and they fly down the hill, Aidan’s laughter seems to echo all around her.

 

*

“Hey. Hey. Hey _kid_.” Finally, Aidan wakes up from his hypnosis over the iPad. “Do me a favor, pause it for a second. Come here.”

 

Aidan does so, and climbs next to Peter on the couch. “You told me to be quiet,” he whispers, pointing to Danny, sleeping upright on Peter’s chest.

 

“Yeah, but he’s out now. Just don’t go screaming all over the place,” he says. “I want to talk to you. You’re doing a great job, you know. Being quiet. Being good to your brother.”

 

Aidan nods seriously. “You guys told me to.”

 

Peter smirks internally. Yeah, but how often has he ever done what he and Lara Jean have told him to? It’s not exactly a common occurrence. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that. I know we haven’t been – you know – around lately.”

 

“Yes you have,” Aidan says, confused.

 

Well, technically they’ve been physically around. But what used to be a (somewhat) calmly controlled whirlwind centered on Aidan has definitely shifted towards the chaos of a having a newborn. If it weren’t for Dan and Trina being here for the week, currently trying to cook dinner and tidy up for them while Lara Jean takes a much-needed nap, Peter doubts he would even have the presence of mind to talk about this with Aidan right now.

 

“Never mind.” Peter puts his free arm around Aidan’s small shoulders. “You’re doing good. Can you promise me something?”

 

“Yeah.” One nod. He’s busy looking at Danny, at his small red foot, flexing out from underneath the crudely-assembled swaddle.

 

“Promise me and Mommy that you’ll take care of him, okay?”

 

“Sure,” Aidan says, so casually, so easily, that Peter knows he doesn’t get it. But then again, why would he? He’s barely three. Aidan reaches out and touches a tiny toe. “He’s cute.”

 

“Yeah, bud.” Peter kisses his forehead, rubs his arm. Aidan snuggles closer to the both of them. “You both are.”

 

*

 

“Okay. You’re doing great. Just – carefully . . .” Lara Jean holds her hand over Aidan’s, guiding it so that the cup of sugar won’t spill. Still, crystals fall, spilling over the small countertop. Then he tips the cup into the mixing bowl. “Awesome, kiddo.”

 

“Now what?” he asks, dusting off his hands. Behind them, Danny pounds on the tray of his high chair.

 

“Now, we give your baby brother some milk. Hold on a sec.” Lara Jean turns to the fridge, grabs the bottle of expressed breast milk, and hands it to the baby. He grabs the bottle and leans back, slurping. She catches his eye, and he lets go of the nipple, grinning at her widely. She giggles, touches his cheek. Aidan has Peter’s smile, much to her delight, but this one – this little guy has hers, dimples and all, and she’s so enthralled with that simple fact.

 

She turns back to the counter. “Okay, now we need to use the mixing spoon,” she says, searching for it in the drawers.

 

The front door opens, slams shut. “Hey,” she calls.

 

“Daddy!” Aidan hops off the stool, runs out of the kitchen and into the hall. She hears Peter say, “Whooaaa,” and there’s a flurry of grunts and limbs flailing, and a few moments later he appears in the kitchen doorway, holding Aidan upside down over his shoulder.

 

“How was your run?” she asks, stirring the contents of the mixing bowl.

 

“He’s so sweaty!” Aidan declares.

 

“That’s right, I am,” he says, and shifts Aidan so that he gets a face full of Peter’s armpit. Aidan screams, laughing and squealing. Peter ignores him and leans down to kiss Danny on the head. “Hey, little man.” Danny, engrossed in his bottle, just reaches out to pat his cheek. “Hello to you too.” He turns to Lara Jean, pulls Aidan upright and sets him on the floor. “What are you guys making?”

 

“Chocolate chip cookies,” she says. “And it’s Aidan. I’m just the assistant baker.”

 

“I’m bored now,” Aidan sighs. Lara Jean makes an affronted sound, but he ignores her. “Daddy, can we go to the park?”

 

“Aw, kid – I just got back from running – can’t we . . .” He stops, sighs. “Yeah. Put on your sneakers.”

 

Lara Jean sighs too. “Have fun,” she calls, as he follows Aidan back out into the hall.

 

“I’ll bring back dinner,” he says, over his shoulder.

 

“No!” Aidan exclaims, running back into the kitchen. “Mommy. Can we have rice balls?”

 

“Aid, Mom’s probably tired – ”

 

“No, it’s okay,” she says. “Sure, baby. I can do some.”

 

“Yay!” Aidan says, grabbing Peter’s hand. “Let’s go.”

 

She shakes her head, smiles – looks forlornly at the mixing bowl. Well, Aidan’s still very young. She’ll make a baker out of him yet. Besides, she reasons, as she opens the fridge, she’ll definitely drop everything to make him this meal. She hasn’t told him about his grandmother – that’ll come when he and Danny are older, able to understand. But she likes . . . _loves_ . . . that he loves this meal, this simple connection to someone he doesn’t know.

 

Later, when they’re eating dinner, and Peter’s teaching Aidan how to stuff one in his mouth whole, and she’s chopping them into tiny portions for Danny to munch on, she looks around the table – at Aidan’s huge, food-full grin, that’s just like Peter’s – at Danny’s dimpled cheeks – and she thinks, _My handsome boys._

 

*

 

Peter scrolls the Excel spreadsheet, rubs his eyes. _Ugh._ They switched Aidan and Danny back to daycare because their nanny moved, and that bill is just . . . He opens up the tab to the listings, clicks on the first picture. There’s no way they can afford that one. Too bad. Lara Jean had absolutely adored it, and he pretended to play cool because he loves to tweak her about these things of things but the truth is, he’d really liked that place too. A brownstone, with just enough historical features to make Lara Jean happy, amidst the clean-lines of the modern updates inside to pique Peter’s interests. A small, fenced in the garden in the back for Aidan and Danny. It really was the perfect place.

 

“Hey.” He looks up. Lara Jean pads into the living room, her bathrobe cinched firmly around her waist and hair wrapped in a towel. “What’s up?”

 

“Nah, nothing,” he says, setting the laptop down on the coffee table. She lies down on the couch next to him and puts her head in his lap. She reaches up, traces a finger in between his brows. Her telling him she knows something’s up. “I don’t think we can make an offer for that brownstone.”

 

She sighs, closes her eyes. “Yeah, I figured.”

 

Peter slouches down into the couch, rests his head on the back so he’s staring up at the ceiling. She plays with his hand. He’s waiting for her to say it – that they should look elsewhere, her favorite refrain – but she doesn’t.

 

Instead, she reaches into her bathrobe pocket, and pulls out two packets. “We deserve this,” she says, handing him one.

 

Peter snickers tears into his package. “What’s this one for?” he asks, trying to arrange the sopping cloth properly so it won’t drape onto his eyes or mouth.

 

“Wrinkles. You’re looking a little craggy, there.”

 

“Rude.” He pokes her side, and she giggles and twists. “What’s yours for?”

 

“Brightening.” She shrugs. “Gotta look our best for this wedding.”

 

Ugh. This wedding. He shouldn’t say ugh, because he _does_ want to go – he is, and has been, trying to make an effort with Everett and Clayton. It’s just gonna be weird. And what if Dad shows up? Plus, them trying to figure out this housing situation, lurking in the background. It’s all just . . . gonna be weird.

 

“I can practically hear you wrinkle,” Lara Jean says, poking a finger into his chest. “Relax. Let the mask work its magic.”

 

“Shut up.” He peers down at her. “I’m as handsome as ever.”

 

She opens her eyes. “Not with that mask on, you look like an axe murderer.”

 

“A wrinkled one, right?” They both burst into laughter. Peter’s mask slips off and he crumbles it into a wet ball, even as Lara Jean makes an affronted, “Hey!” sound. He knows – they’re expensive. But, they’re leaving tomorrow to stay at Mom’s for the wedding, and who knows when they’re going to get the next opportunity? “Come on,” he says, hauling her upright. “Give Daddy some lovin’.”

 

She snorts. “I _hate_ it when you say stuff like that!” she says, standing.

 

“Okay, Mama.”

 

“Stop!” she laughs, slapping at his shoulder. He pulls her back down, onto his lap, so she’s straddling him. “I’m not having sex with you when you talk like that.”

 

“That’s fair, because I’m not having sex with you when you’re wearing that mask.”

 

“Oh, sorry,” she says, balling it up immediately. He picks her up and she laughs into his neck. “You’re such a dumbass.”

 

“Again,” he says, nudging the bedroom door open with his heel. “That’s fair.” They fall onto the bed with a _whompf!_ and underneath him, she giggles, trying to catch her breath, just like he is.

 

-End-

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos. you've all been very kind. i am going to concentrate of finishing bullets and cupcakes and starting one other little thing.


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